


Boys, Interrupted.

by FlirtyFroggy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: 1930s, Age of Sail, Angst, F/F, F/M, Future, Historical, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Victorian, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 68,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlirtyFroggy/pseuds/FlirtyFroggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xabi and Stevie are trying to be happy but life, and death, keep getting in the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Article 29

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/10208.html?thread=5699808#t5699808) prompt at the kink meme.
> 
> I spent a long time wrestling with the fact that really only the soul should continue through each life - it would be unrealistic for them to look the same and they certainly wouldn't have the same name each time. Then I remembered I was writing about two professional footballers who are soulmates and get reincarnated together through history. Realistic is relative.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not meant to imply anything about any actual people or their lives. It's just for fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About 95% of my knowledge about life in Nelson's Navy comes from watching Hornblower and reading Patrick O'Brian, so I apologise in advance for the inevitable historical inaccuracies contained herein. Speaking of Hornblower, I couldn't resist inserting my favourite world-weary captain or sneaking in a tiny cameo of my favourite tragic lieutenant.

_Somewhere off the coast of Cadiz, 1793._

They had found him in the brig of the _Cléopâtre_. He was in reasonably good health considering the conditions he had been living in, not to mention the company he had been keeping. A little thin, a little weak, in desperate need of a bath and a shave, but nothing to cause Steven any serious concern, which was fortunate. The worst was over, for today at least, but Steven still had plenty of his own crew to tend to without having to worry about unexpected rescued prisoners. A Spanish spy, according to the French, and the man agreed to this description easily enough. A little too easily for the captain. 

“Should a man of your, ah, vocation, admit to it so readily?” Pellew asked.

The spy raised an eyebrow. “We are allies, are we not? Do I have a reason to hide anything from you?” Nothing about his expression changed in any way, and yet he gave the distinct impression he was smirking.

“Do not play games with me, sir,” Pellew barked. “A man of your obvious intelligence is well aware that alliances are shaky at the best of times, and these are far from the best of times.”

The spy nodded in acknowledgement. “I have been passed from French ship to French ship for a long time. The information I had is long past usefulness. I am well and truly compromised. There is no harm in admitting what I am, particularly when you already know it. I felt it best, in the interests of my own comfort and safety, to be honest with you. My allies.” His lips quirked at the corners. Steven fought down a smile of his own.

“Indeed,” Pellew said, somehow cramming a lifetime’s dissatisfaction with the world and all its inhabitants into two syllables. One day Steven would pluck up the courage to ask him how he did that. “Well, as we are to have the pleasure of your company on our journey back to England, may we also have the pleasure of your name?”

“Alonso,” the man said. It was Pellew’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Steven shook his head.

“Sorry. Not enough names for a Spaniard,” Steven said. “Try again.”

The spy, Alonso, smiled properly, a bright grin that spread across his face and made his eyes crinkle. Steven felt a tug in his gut that he resolutely ignored. “Xabier Alonso Olano.” He dipped his head to them both in an approximation of a bow. Steven was quite certain they were being mocked, albeit gently. He found he didn’t really mind.

~~

Steven wearily pushed open the door to his cabin, thinking only of trying to get a few hours’ sleep before he had to return to duty in the sickbay. He stopped short as he was greeted by a stream of Spanish curses. “Is that any way to speak to the man who gave up his bed for you?” he said, as lightly as he could given that he was being presented with the not inconsiderable sight of Alonso’s naked back. Those French bastards really hadn’t taken very good care of him; Steven could count his ribs. He had managed to bathe by the looks of things and had also acquired some clothes, though apparently he had not seen fit to put all of them on. Alonso turned and Steven could see that his face was covered with shaving soap and he held a razor in his right hand. Steven’s razor.

“Forgive me. My words were not aimed at you. They were aimed at, at this thing.” He lifted the razor and waved it, curling his lip in disgust. “And at myself,” he added more quietly. “I am not– I cannot–”

“Are you unwell?” Steven said, stepping fully into the room. The cabin was so small that this single step brought him alongside Alonso’s chair. Steven’s chair.

“Not unwell, no. Just a little unsteady.” He held out his hands, which were indeed trembling. Not badly, just enough that you wouldn’t want them holding a naked blade to your face. 

Steven gave him his best reassuring doctor smile. “Can I help? I mean, I could help, if you would like.”

Even through the layer of soap suds, Alonso’s smile was able to produce that little tug in Steven’s gut again. “Thank you. I would appreciate it very much. It would be a shame for me to cut my own throat now, after all this time.”

Steven took a deep breath and edged around Alonso’s chair until he was standing in front of him. There was no other chair in the room so he braced himself against the bed and plucked the razor from Alonso’s hand. Gripping Alonso’s chin to hold him still he drew the blade smoothly but firmly down his cheek. Then he did it again. “Thank you for letting me stay here,” Alonso said while he rinsed the razor in the little water bowl.

“We were hardly going to throw you overboard, were we?” Steven said with a smile. “This is the Royal Navy, you know. We are men of honour.” There was that little quirk of the lips again. Steven wanted to kiss it. He busied himself with ensuring the razor was free of hair and soap.

“I meant here in your cabin, not here on the ship. You did not have to do that.”

Steven shrugged and reapplied the razor to Alonso’s skin. “It made sense. You’re not exactly healthy and I would like to keep an eye on you, but you’re not sick enough to warrant taking up valuable space in the sickbay. In any event, you are a guest on this ship. You can’t bunk with the crew, it wouldn’t be proper.” He withdrew the blade again and dipped it in the water bowl.

“You do not strike me as a man to care much about what is proper,” Alonso said. Steven flicked his eyes up to meet Alonso’s steady, unreadable gaze, then returned his attention to the task in hand.

“Apparently, nor are you. A man with a sense of propriety would not help himself to another man’s shaving apparatus.” He tilted Alonso’s head to give himself better access to Alonso’s other cheek. Again, two swift, sure strokes cut a path through his beard, revealing the skin underneath. It had that pale, translucent quality of not having seen the sun for a very long time.

“I am sorry,” Alonso said when Steven drew the blade away. “Your lieutenant, the talkative one, said you would not mind. I was a little unsure, but I made the mistake of glancing in your mirror and seeing what a sight I have become. I’m afraid the urge to look like a civilised human being overcame my moral qualms about other people’s personal property.”

“It’s quite alright,” Steven said. “I don’t really mind.”

They didn’t speak for a while as Steven concentrated on the awkward area around Alonso’s nose and mouth. Despite his efforts, Steven nicked ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth, a tiny bead of blood forming in the crease there. Steven wiped it away, his thumb drifting across Alonso’s lower lip as he did so. Steven was close enough to see Alonso swallow, hear the slight catch in his breath. He knew that if he were to place his fingers to Alonso’s wrist, to his neck, he would feel his heart beating faster than it should. He pulled back to rinse the blade once more. As he turned away, he glimpsed Alonso’s tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“You look tired,” Alonso said. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Capturing French ships is hard work.”

“You do a lot of fighting do you, Doctor?” Alonso said pointedly.

Steven flicked another glance at him. “I may not have much to do during the battle, but there is always plenty to do afterwards.”

“Did you lose many?” Alonso asked, his voice soft.

Too many. Always too many. “It could have been a great deal worse. Lots of injuries, but not many of them fatal.” He turned back to Alonso and placed his hand under his chin, pushing it upwards. Alonso obediently tipped his head back, exposing his throat. Steven hesitated a moment, his blade less than an inch from Alonso’s jugular. 

“It’s alright,” Alonso said with that infuriating little smile. “I trust you.” Biting his lip, Steven set about removing the hair from Alonso’s neck and jaw as quickly as he could without risking injury. This, whatever it was, whatever Steven thought he was doing here, had gone on long enough; Steven knew he could have done this task in half the time if he hadn’t been mooning like an idiot, lingering over Alonso’s mouth and jaw, wondering what they would feel like against his lips. He was an officer in His Majesty’s Navy and he had duties to fulfil, none of which involved finding out what Alonso’s skin tasted like.

“Done,” he said, aware of how strained his voice sounded. He wiped the last traces of soap from Alonso’s neck with his face cloth and cleaned the razor for the last time. “You should get some rest. And so should I.”

“Thank you.” Alonso’s voice was also a little uneven. “You should take the bed,” he said as Steven stood up and took out the hammock that was stowed in the chest against the wall. “You have important duties to perform, you need to be rested.”

“No,” Steven said, stringing up the hammock with practised ease. The cabin was so small that there was only just enough room for the hammock to hang alongside the bed, above the chair, table and chest. “You are both patient and guest. You take the bed. Doctor’s orders,” he added firmly when Alonso looked like arguing. “I will be perfectly comfortable here.” He slipped off his boots and jacket and climbed into the hammock. Alonso studied him for a long moment before lying down on the bed. Steven forced himself not to squirm.

Steven leaned over to turn the lantern down. “Goodnight, Señor Alonso.”

“ _Buenas noches,_ Dr Gerrard.” Steven could hear the smile in Alonso’s voice and couldn’t help a smile of his own. The movement of the ship caused the hammock to sway, the edge bumping up against the bed. Steven only needed to reach out his hand to be touching Alonso’s shoulder. He folded his hands against his chest and forced himself to be still. He lay awake for a few minutes, listening to the sound of Alonso breathing. It was only his extreme tiredness that allowed him to fall asleep quickly.

~~

Steven finished stitching up the gash on Martin’s forehead and patted him on the shoulder. “Be more careful going down stairs in future, young man. The Navy needs all the capable men it can get. It’s bad enough losing them to the French without losing them to their own clumsiness too. Off you go then.” The deckhand gave him a clumsy salute and then scampered out of the sickbay. Steven shook his head as he watched him go.

“Sir,” said the soft voice of Worthington behind him. “Do you really believe he fell down the stairs?”

“Philip Martin has been at sea since he was eight years old. Of course he didn’t fall down the stairs. He was clearly in a fight and came out on the losing end of it.” 

“Sir, isn’t that – forgive me – but isn’t that the sort of thing we should report to the Captain?”

“No.” Steven turned to face him. “And the Captain would not want us to. If the crew believe we will report them for every minor infraction then they will not come to us for treatment when these things happen.” Worthington looked uncertain. Steven stepped towards him and grasped his shoulder. Worthington was a bright lad with a lot of promise; it was important that he understood this. “It is natural that in such close quarters there will be disagreements and grudges. It is also natural that they will sometimes not be resolved peacefully. If I believed there was a problem, if the same people kept coming to me with the same injuries, then of course I would speak to the Captain. But nobody benefits if we treat every little brawl below decks as a flogging offence.”

Worthington looked thoughtful for a moment. “I see what you are saying, Sir. We cannot be responsible for both the health of the crew and the discipline of the ship. They are two separate things.”

Steven nodded, pleased. “Indeed. We do not expect lieutenants to stitch wounds, and there is no reason why doctors should discipline the crew.”

“It is just as well, Sir. I have seen how Lieutenant Kennedy darns his shirts. I would not want him stitching my wounds.”

Steven laughed. “Careful, Worthington. That was very close to speaking ill of a senior officer.”

“Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again, Sir.”

“See that it doesn’t. Ensure that the rest of this is properly stowed, Worthington. I am going to attempt to locate our guest and see that he is still breathing.”

“Very good, Sir.” 

Alonso was indeed still breathing. Steven found him on deck, helping some of the men repair a sail. “I should put you to work in the sickbay,” he said by way of greeting. “Worthington would appreciate your needlework. Excuse me, gentlemen,” he added to the group. “I need to borrow Señor Alonso for a moment.”

“You know we’re none of us gentlemen, Doctor. Don’t make fun,” said Gibson. The men laughed. “You will give him back to us when you’re finished with him, won’t you, Sir? Dead handy with a needle, he is.”

“Don’t worry, Gibson, you’ll hardly know he is gone.” He and Alonso stepped away from the men, who resumed their chatter immediately. “Like a bunch of washer women,” Steven said, shaking his head.

“You are very fond of them,” Alonso chided.

“I am,” Steven agreed. “They’re a good lot. I have sailed with crews who weren’t, so believe me I cherish them when I find them. It is good of you to help them.”

“I like to make myself useful.”

“Perhaps I really should put you to work in the sickbay.” 

“I already sleep in your cabin, Doctor. I fear you would tire of me very quickly if we also worked together.” 

I could never tire of you, Steven thought, looking at him and noting how his too-pale skin had already caught the sun across his nose and cheekbones. Amusement began to play around Alonso’s mouth and eyes and Steven realised he had been silent for too long. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to check on you. You are feeling well?”

“I am feeling much better, thank you.”

“You do not feel any dizziness? Any weakness or nausea?”

“None at all. Would you like to check my pulse?” Alonso held out his wrist. Steven stared at it for a moment. 

“Unless it is an emergency I prefer to perform all examinations in the relative privacy of the sickbay,” Steven said stiffly, aware that he sounded like an idiot. Alonso merely smiled at him. He tilted his head slightly and for a moment the way the sunlight caught his eyes made him look other-worldly, unreal. Then he moved his head again and the effect was gone. His eyes were their normal brown; warm, inquisitive and too inviting.

“Of course,” Alonso said, lowering his arm. “Do you need me to come with you now?”

“No. No,” Steven stammered. “I do not think there is any need, if you are feeling well. If nothing changes then come and see me at our appointed time.”

“Do not worry, Doctor. If I feel anything at all you will be the first to know.” There was that smile again.

Steven nodded. “Good. Good. Better let you get back to your needlework then,” he said, pulling himself together at last. Best he returned to the sickbay before he embarrassed himself further.

~~

Steven was as busy as ever over the next few days, but not so busy that he didn’t notice Alonso ‘making himself useful’ all over the ship. Chopping vegetables in the galley, learning to mend rope, helping Worthington to wash bandages. None of it was particularly taxing, but it was not the rest Steven had prescribed. 

They had fallen into a routine very quickly. Alonso would retire before Steven’s shift ended so as to be in bed when Steven returned to the cabin. This would leave Steven with enough space to perform his nightly ablutions and string his hammock. 

“Good evening, Doctor,” Alonso said as he entered the cabin. He looked tired.

“I know you men of action types don’t like to be idle,” Steven said, “but there is a difference between ‘idle’ and ‘resting’.”

“You can never just say ‘hello’ to me, can you?”

“Good evening, Señor Alonso,” Steven said, a smile springing to his lips. “Please reduce your activities around the ship or I shall have to confine you to sickbay.” He stripped off his jacket, shirt and boots and poured some water into his washbowl. Alonso had left him half the jug, as usual. 

“Doctor’s orders?” Alonso asked with a smile Steven could hear but not see. He had already learned not to look at Alonso when he was lounging in Steven’s bed wearing nothing but the nightshirt he had somehow managed to acquire. Cleaning his face was the perfect way to avert his gaze, so he set about burying his head in his towel. 

“Yes, doctor’s orders,” he said through the cloth. Alonso chuckled. 

“Very well. If that is what you desire.”

“It is.” Steven hung his towel up to dry, ensuring he kept his back to the bed.

“Would you like me to stay here in bed all day, waiting for you to return?” Alonso said in a voice that positively dripped innocence.

“You know that is not what I meant,” Steven said, fighting to keep his voice even as he strung up the hammock. “Some physical activity is good for you, just not so much that you wear yourself out. Fresh air is good too.” He climbed into the hammock.

“I do enjoy being out on deck,” Alonso said.

“I imagine you would, after being kept locked up for so long.”

“And I do enjoy physical activity as well. Even if it does wear me out.” 

Stephen gritted his teeth and turned the lantern down. “Just don’t overdo it,” was all he could he think to say.

“I just want to help,” Alonso said, all hints of teasing gone from his voice, greatly to Steven’s relief. “I am taking up space, food, water. I want to pull my weight.”

“It’s very good of you. Everyone appreciates it.” It was true. It was generally assumed that any passengers would be just that; passengers. Nobody expected them to help make dinner.

“I am glad. I like your crew. They seem like good men.”

“They are.” There was a long silence, and Steven was just about to say goodnight when Alonso spoke again.

“I feel I should be honest with you,” he said slowly, as though he wasn’t sure he should be speaking. Steven held his breath. “It is not only to be useful that I offer my help.”

“Oh?” What on earth was he going to confess to? Steven sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to have to go to Pellew and tell him that the reason Alonso was so friendly with the crew was that he was gathering information to take back to his superiors.

“It is – I wish to ensure my own safety. Our two countries, politically we are allies. But that is in politics and treaties and pieces of paper. In reality, things are different. Your English crew does not know what to make of this Spanish spy in their midst. And a Catholic too, which is worse? They do not trust me. In essence, it is better for me if you all like me. And so, I help.”

Steven laughed. “I thought you were going to admit to spying on us or something. You had me worried.” Alonso laughed too.

“I just do not want you to get the idea that I am more noble than I am. I am motivated at least in part by self-preservation and self-interest. Not,” he continued softly, the laughter dropping from his voice, “not that I do not want you to think well of me. I very much want you to think well of me. But I do not want to deceive you.” 

Steven opened his mouth but had no idea what to say. After what he was sure was too long a time he said, “You know, if any of the crew wanted to kill you in your sleep, they would have to get past me first.”

“And you would protect me with your superior fighting skills?” He sounded amused again.

“No, I would just point out to them that if they kill me there will be nobody to patch them up anymore.”

Alonso chuckled. “I am sure that would not be the only thing that would keep them from killing you.”

They fell silent. Steven listened to the sound of Alonso breathing. “I think you are more noble than you claim to be,” he said into the darkness. “And I do think well of you.”

Steven heard Alonso draw in a sharp breath. “I am glad of it.”

“Goodnight, Señor Alonso.”

“Call me Xabi.”

There were a lot of things Steven could say to that. He could say that it wouldn’t be appropriate; that there were boundaries and social rules; that they weren’t friends, God knew, whatever they were they weren’t friends; that the informality was a step down a dangerous path. Instead he said, “Call me Steven.”

~~

“I’m sorry we can’t take you back to Spain,” Steven said as they leaned over the aft rail, watching the spray beneath them.

“I have waited a long time. I can wait a little longer. Besides, Portsmouth is nice.” 

“If you say so.”

Xabi laughed. “That is not a very polite thing to say about one of your great ports, Steven.”

Steven wondered if hearing Xabi say his name would always send that shiver through him, if the sound of Xabi’s laughter would always make the corners of his lips curl upwards of their own accord. He had never been so content in his life, he realised, as he was standing here watching the ocean swirl by with this man who was still such a mystery to him. He looked over at him, to take everything in, to remember this moment; the sun glinting off his hair, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the small smile that suggested some private joke. The hollows of his cheeks were a little fuller than they had been; Steven would be able to take him off double rations soon. His shoulders were a little broader, his work around the ship building up his muscles. He looked strong. Beautiful.

“Steven. Steven. Have you heard a word I said?”

“Um,” Steven said, trying to drag himself out of his reverie. “You said Portsmouth is great.”

Xabi smirked. “I said quite a few things after that, Steven.” He leaned closer. “You were too busy staring at me.” He leaned closer still. To anyone watching it would look like he was just making himself heard over the crashing of the waves, but Steven could feel his breath in his ear, his hair against his cheek. He closed his eyes. “You do that a lot,” Xabi whispered.

“I can’t help it,” Steven said, rendered honest by Xabi’s brain-numbing proximity. He opened his eyes. “There is nothing else I would rather look at.” 

Later, Steven would be amused by the dumbfounded look that flashed across Xabi’s face at that statement, but at that moment he was too caught in Xabi’s gaze to be amused by anything. You’re going to leave, Steven thought. We are going to reach England and you will find a carriage to take you to London or a ship to take you to Spain and I will never, ever see you again. He had always known this, of course, but the knowledge had been tucked away at the back of his mind. Now the certainty of it crashed over him, washing away his earlier contentment, leaving nothing behind but a desperate desire to take everything he could while it was still there to take.

~~

Steven walked slowly, slowly towards his cabin. He could ask for Xabi to be moved, claim an unresolveable difference of opinion, claim that the man disturbed his sleep, claim that he was more ill than he seemed after all and needed to be in the sickbay. But Steven knew he would do none of those things; he did not want to do those things.

“Good evening, Dr Gerrard,” Xabi said with a smile as he opened the door, that smile that held secrets and promises. Steven shut the door. Xabi placed a marker in the book he was reading and laid it down beside him. His smile widened as he looked at Steven. “You are not avoiding me as you usually do when you come in.”

“No,” Steven said. He removed his boots as he usually did and placed them under the table. He slipped off his jacket and shirt as he usually did, his eyes never leaving Xabi who smiled up at him from the narrow bed. His eyes raked across Steven’s chest.

“It is good to see you from the front,” Xabi said. “Usually I have to make do with your back. Not that I don’t appreciate that view of course.”

Steven folded his clothes and placed them on the chair as he usually did. Then he poured water into the washbowl as he usually did. He fought down a smile of his own at the expression he glimpsed on Xabi’s face.

When he was done washing he stepped over to the bed and looked down at Xabi, who was smiling again. “Finally. I thought you had changed your mind.”

Steven looked down at him, at the laughter in his eyes, the creases round his mouth, the invitation of his slightly spread thighs. “Is this all a game to you, Alonso?”

Something flashed in Xabi’s eyes at the use of his surname, but he looked at Steven seriously, softly. “No. It is no game. In a game someone must lose, yes? But here, I think we both win.” He sat up, reached a hand around Steven’s neck, and brought their lips together. The kiss was surprisingly tentative, tender, and Steven felt an ache in his chest that for a second was stronger even than the stirring in his groin. Then Xabi’s tongue flickered against his lips and he was pulling him down and Steven was lost, lost.

Steven had been with men before. He had long recognised his own proclivities and accepted them, and though he did not have the same libido that life among sailors had taught him many men had, he did have needs. He had soon found ways of satisfying these needs; handsome boys with clever mouths in molly houses in distant ports (not in England, never in England. It was far too risky.) They had often been attractive and skilled, their company pleasurable.

It had never felt like this. Nothing could have prepared him for how it felt to have Xabi moving beneath him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clutching his hip, urging him on; he had never imagined that the grip and slide of another man’s thighs would feel like the sort of ecstasy preachers talked about; he had never felt the world shatter and reform around him, only to find that the world consisted of just one person, of the scent of their skin, the feel of their hair, the warmth of their breath. Steven thought he could be happy if he never heard another sound in all his life but the sound of Xabi whispering his name over and over, ragged and broken, like a plea or a prayer. 

~~

The bed was not made for two. It was barely made for one. This had been fine the night before when Steven had collapsed on top of Xabi, exhausted and sated, content not to move for the foreseeable future. Things were a little different in the morning.

“Steven. Steven. _Madre de Dios_ , you are even heavier than you look. Off. Off.” Steven groaned and peeled himself away from Xabi, then gave an undignified yelp as he tumbled off the bed and landed on the floor with a bump.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his elbow. “This is the thanks I get?”

Xabi leaned out of the bed and held out a hand to pull him up. “Thank you, Steven,” he said, tugging him forward for a quick kiss. “Thank you for the most extraordinary experience of my life.”

Steven floundered around for an appropriate response. “Two people crammed in a bunk meant for half a person is the most extraordinary experience of your life?” he said at last.

Xabi gave that knowing smile again. It no longer made Steven want to hit him, but it did still make him want to kiss him. So he did. “I did not just mean last night,” Xabi said a little breathlessly when they finally broke apart. “I meant… everything. All of it. Meeting you, getting to know you, has been the most extraordinary experience of my life.”

“Xabi, I. Xabi,” Steven said, helpless.

Xabi placed his fingers against Steven’s lips. “Shh. There are better uses for your mouth.”

~~

“Do you believe in God, Steven? And the Bible?”

“I definitely believe in one of those things. Not so sure about the other.”

“Oh?”

“The Bible says that God loves us, that God created everything, and that God is all-powerful. You would think an all-powerful god would create fewer things that he disapproves of, wouldn’t he? And if he loves us so much, why would he condemn us for things that he brought about in the first place?”

“Oh.”

“You disagree?”

“No. That is a fairly succinct description of my own opinions on the matter.”

“Good.”

“What we have, Steven, it is a gift from God. That is what it feels like to me. I do not believe it is something he will punish us for.”

“Better not let the Chaplain catch us talking like this.”

“If the Chaplain catches us like this our thoughts on the Bible will be the least of his concerns. Anyway, I am Catholic. The Chaplain believes I am already going to Hell.”

~~

“All that heaving ropes and sails and sacks of rice about is doing you good,” Steven said, running his hand over Xabi’s shirtsleeve, lingering over newly-toned muscle and tendon. The Officer’s Mess was deserted; anyone who came in would see nothing but the two of them sitting at the table discussing Xabi’s health. Steven felt safe letting his fingers trace along the bones in Xabi’s wrist.

“Hmm, I told you physical activity was good for me,” Xabi said sleepily, propping his face in his hand.

“Right. That’s why you’re exhausted in the middle of the day.”

“I am Spanish,” Xabi said with a shrug. “It is siesta time.”

“I don’t know how you people ever forged an Empire.”

Xabi laughed in surprise. “By ensuring we were not too exhausted to work properly, obviously.”

“Ah. Of course. You should mention that to the Captain. Tell him that we would do much better against the French if the crew were to down tools and do nothing for two hours in the middle of the afternoon.”

“The crew would love me forever.”

“I think this crew are going to love you forever anyway. You’ve got them wrapped around your little finger.”

“I try.” Steven loved Xabi like this; playful and light and laughing. Genuine laughter, not the borderline-mocking, amused by the world at large mask that he usually wore. Steven took an inordinate amount of pride in making Xabi laugh. He wondered how many people got to see this side of him, and felt a twist of envy at the people in Xabi’s past, in Xabi’s future, that Steven would never know. “Steven.” Xabi’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Steven asked, knowing full well what Xabi was talking about.

“Thinking.”

“I am a very thoughtful man. It’s what brought me to my current position in the world.”

“Well, stop it. Be here in the present. With me.” Xabi entwined their fingers, squeezed them briefly and then let go.

“Where else would I be?”

~~

They got caught. Of course they got caught. And in the worse possible way. If they had been seen kissing or with their hands down one another’s trousers then that would have been one thing. Steven would have been quietly transferred to another ship, Xabi would have been quietly returned to the Spanish Authorities and it would all have been quietly swept away. They could both have got on with their lives; heartbroken of course, followed by rumours perhaps, but essentially out of trouble. But when the Captain, the Quartermaster and your own damn assistant walk into your cabin to find you with your cock up another man’s arse, there’s really nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.

~~

_If any Person in the Fleet shall commit the unnatural and detestable Sin of Buggery or Sodomy with Man or Beast, he shall be punished with Death by the sentence of a court martial – Article 29 of the Articles of War._

_All flag officers, and all persons in or belonging to His Majesty's ships or vessels of war, being guilty of profane oaths, cursings, execrations, drunkenness, uncleanness, or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God's honour, and corruption of good manners, shall incur such punishment as a court martial shall think fit to impose, and as the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve – Article 2 of the Articles of War._

~~

The court martial was to be convened the very next morning. They had been almost at Portsmouth when they got caught – knowing they had little time left, knowing this was their last chance to be together, they had foolishly succumbed to temptation when the risk was greatest. It seemed like God’s cruel joke. 

They were in the brig, in separate cells of course, but the Captain had seen fit to ensure their cells adjoined. They leaned against the bars that separated them, shoulders touching, heads bent together, fingers entwined. There seemed little point now in pretending that they did not mean the world to each other, and they would take what contact and comfort they could.

“I’m sorry,” Steven whispered. It seemed so monstrously unfair. For so many months Xabi had been shut away, his future uncertain. And here he was locked up again, his future… Steven could not bear to think about it.

“How can you be sorry?” Xabi said, frowning. Steven gave an incredulous laugh that sounded horrifyingly close to a sob. We’re going to die, Xabi, he didn’t say. Xabi lifted his head and looked him in the eyes, reached a hand through the bars and cupped his cheek. “How can I be sorry for you? How can I be sorry for what we have done? I wish we had not been caught, of course I do, but I cannot bring myself to regret it. Can you?” Uncertainty flickered in Xabi’s eyes, an unfamiliar expression that made Steven feel sick. He’d be damned if he was going to let Xabi die believing that this didn’t mean everything to Steven that it did to him. The truth was, no matter how much he may regret their current situation, if he had his time again the only thing he would do differently would be resisting Xabi in the first place.

“I don’t regret it. I could never, ever regret it. I would do all of it again. All of it.” It was not enough, it was not nearly enough, to explain how Steven felt, but Steven couldn’t find the words. He wasn’t sure the words were there to find, didn’t think they existed. Xabi must have understood, because the uncertainty left his eyes and he smiled.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“Oi, lovebirds. Keep it down,” the guard, Jenkins, shouted. Steven had taught him how to read. “You’re lucky you’re not swinging already.”

~~

They made Worthington testify at the court martial. Steven was almost more angry about that than about anything else. They already had the testimony of the Captain and the Quartermaster. Steven and Xabi had already admitted their guilt; they could hardly deny it after all. There was no need to put the boy through that. 

The verdict was never in doubt. At least, Steven’s wasn’t; Article 29 was quite explicit. He was to be hung from the yard-arm the following day, in front of the ship’s company. Steven had expected nothing else, but he still felt a bolt of terror flash through him when the sentence was read out.

Xabi’s case was a little trickier and they had sat in the Great cabin for what felt like hours listening to Pellew argue with Captain Wright, Captain Berry and Admiral MacIntyre that the Articles should not apply to Xabi as he was not a member of the fleet. Captain Wright, who Steven recalled had always hated Pellew, and Pellew hated him, argued in turn that while Article 29 may not apply to him, Article 2 certainly did. He was a person in one of His Majesty’s ships after all. And surely Captain Pellew would not suggest that Alonso’s actions were not scandalous and in derogation of God’s honour? Surely if anything was a corruption of good manners it was this? Pellew looked like he would dearly like to run the man through, but he could not argue with his logic. The Articles had been designed to cover every possible eventuality, after all.

In the end, it was politics, not obfuscation of the law, which determined Xabi’s fate. Relations with Spain were tenuous and the execution of one of their agents would not be taken well, regardless of the circumstances. Xabi would be handed over to the Spanish authorities, to be dealt with as they saw fit. Steven did not hold out much hope that they would be any more lenient than the British, but some hope was better than none. Xabi had time; he had to be taken to London and then, perhaps, to Spain. There may be possibilities for escape. 

They were returned to the brig to await the morning.

~~

“I am sorry, Steven.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“You are to die, and I am not.”

“I thought you didn’t regret anything.”

“I do not. But still.”

“I know.”

~~

It was eight o’clock in the morning when Worthington appeared unexpectedly in the brig. Steven’s execution was scheduled for nine o’clock. Steven pulled himself away from Xabi’s arm, which was wrapped around his chest, and scrambled up from the floor.

“I have brought you ink and paper, Sir. With the Captain’s permission,” he added to Jenkins, who looked like he was going to protest. “I thought you might want to put your affairs in order.”

Steven swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat with difficulty. “Thank you, Worthington. I appreciate it.”

Worthington nodded. He turned to go, then hesitated. “Forgive me, Sir.” Steven had to strain to hear him. “I didn’t know– I didn’t want to–”

“There is nothing to forgive. This is not your fault, do you understand? I made my own choices. I knew the law and I knew the risks. There is nothing to forgive.”

“Perhaps if I spoke to The Captain, to Admiral MacIntyre, my Uncle, Sir.”

“No. There are no strings you can pull, Simon.” The boy’s head shot up at Steven’s use of his Christian name. Jenkins looked worryingly interested in the conversation. “It doesn’t matter who your family are. It happened, everyone knows, the court martial was held. There is nothing you can do. I broke the law, the King’s law, and I must pay the price.”

“It’s so unfair, Sir. You’re a good man. You have done more good for this country than half the idlers at the Admiralty–”

“That’s enough,” Steven snapped, casting a worried glance at Jenkins. Good God, things were bad enough without Jenkins reporting Worthington for sedition. “If you want to help me, then remember what I’ve taught you. Work hard. Do good things. Be a good doctor. Be a good man. And if you must fall in love, for Heaven’s sake let it be with a woman. The world is not ready for men like me. I hope one day it will be, though you and I shall never see it. Can you do those things for me?” 

“Yes, Sir.” He looked shaken but resolved, his voice was firm. He cast a glance over Steven’s shoulder to where Xabi stood, nodded, then returned his attention to Steven. “I will see you on deck, Sir.”

Steven could feel himself start to tremble as he watched Worthington leave. He took a deep breath and forced the fear down. He’d be damned if he was going to fall apart now. He resumed his position next to the bars between himself and Xabi, took up the pen Worthington had brought him, and began to write.

He wrote first to Pellew, apologising for bringing his ship into disrepute, for letting him down. It was difficult to express regret for the consequences of his actions without expressing regret for the actions themselves, but he thought he made a decent enough job of it in the end. If there was one thing he was truly sorry for, it was putting the crew and the captain through this. He thanked him for trying to save Xabi.

He wrote to his father. He was reasonably certain that his father would simply burn the letter, but it was his filial duty and he would fulfil it.

He wrote to Worthington, reiterating everything he had just said to him, particularly the part about not being a damn fool when it came to expressing one’s opinion about the Admiralty.

Then he began his Last Will and Testament. He left his books and medical equipment to Worthington, with an admonishment to make good use of them, and his money he left to Greenwich Hospital. His other possessions were to be divided amongst the crew as they saw fit. He left nothing to Xabi. He had no material possessions that Xabi could use, and had already given him everything he had to give anyway.

All the while Xabi sat beside him, his quiet presence keeping Steven from flying apart.

~~

They came for him soon after. It came quicker than Steven had expected, but he supposed he was as ready as he would ever be. As they unlocked the cell, Xabi took his face in his hands and kissed him gently. “We will be together again. In the next life. I believe this with all my heart, Steven. We will see each other again.” Steven studied his face, trying to memorise every detail, every crease and wrinkle, the exact colour of his eyes, to take with him. To carry with him for the rest of his life. It would not be very long, but Steven knew he would need every ounce of the strength he could draw from Xabi to get through it. 

“Come on then,” Jenkins said, pushing him roughly towards the stairs. Steven looked back over his shoulder, drinking in the last glimpse of Xabi’s face through the bars before stepping up through the hatch.

The sunlight was blinding as he stepped onto the deck. The faces of the ship’s company were little more than a blur. The few who came clearly into view were avoiding his eye. He caught sight of Worthington, staring straight ahead, chin up, spine stiffened. Pellew stepped forward and held out his hand. “It has been an honour and a pleasure, Doctor.” A murmur ran around the deck. 

“Likewise, Captain,” Steven said, shaking the proffered hand. He thought he saw sorrow and regret hiding behind the Captain’s mask of impassivity and it made Steven’s chest ache to know he had put it there. 

He mounted the scaffold slowly and reached the top all too quickly. Gibson was waiting there for him, along with the Chaplain. Gibson looked past him, somewhere over his shoulder. “Do you wish to make your peace with God?” The Chaplain said. “Do you repent of your actions?”

“No,” Steven said, and almost laughed at the Chaplain’s shocked expression. “I could say the words, if it would make you feel better, but God would know I was lying, wouldn’t he?”

“Very well,” the Chaplain said, stony-faced. Out of the corner of his eye, Steven thought he saw Gibson's lips twitch. Then Gibson stepped forward and placed the hood over his head.

It was stifling under there, and strangely muffled. Everything seemed very far away. Everything but the rope being tied around his feet, attaching the lead shot. And then the rope being placed around his neck. Gibson spent some time adjusting it. “Just want to make sure it’s all right, Sir,” Gibson said. “Make it nice and quick, like. Don’t want you to suffer.”

“Thank you, Gibson,” Steven said, and felt a hand squeeze his shoulder in response. What a world, Steven thought, where the best you could hope for was a swiftly broken neck. He wondered if this was one of the ropes Xabi had helped to mend. He thought of Xabi’s eyes boring into his, of the slick slide of their skin, of Xabi’s voice snatched away by the wind, of their fingers entwined on the mattress of Steven’s – their – bed. We will be together again, Xabi had said. Steven closed his eyes, and prayed that it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I swear the other lives won't be this depressing. There was just no way this one was going to end well.
> 
> [The Articles of War 1757](http://www.hmsrichmond.org/rnarticles.htm) You might notice that in this list, the rule against sodomy is listed at 28 rather than 29. The Articles were updated again in 1779 and I believe it is in this version of the Articles that the rule becomes the infamous Article 29. However, I cannot find the 1779 Articles anywhere, because apparently my bookmarking skills leave a lot to be desired and Google is not my friend.
> 
> I based Steven's trial and execution heavily on one particular account of a Navy sodomy trial from the 1790s, which I now also cannot find. I took some artitic liberties, mostly with the timeframe which I compressed quite a lot, but I believe it to be largely accurate to how some trials and executions were carried out in this period.
> 
> Steven installing Xabi in his own cabin is not just a case of Steven (and myself) trying to find an excuse for them to spend time together in close quarters, though there is certainly some of that going on. Social rules were enforced on board ship as they were elsewhere, and it really wouldn't have been considered proper for a man of Xabi's station to bunk with the crew. Navy ships would occassionally have to transport civilian passengers and those of high-rank and/or women would be given the captains quarters or those of an officer depending on status, accommodations available on board etc. Steven might have an ulterior motive for volunteering his cabin, but I think it's within the realms of protocol and social acceptibility.


	2. The Carlisle Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I know seven months is an unconscionable length of time to leave between chapters. I can only apologise. I'd written about 10,000 words of the chapter when my laptop had a meltdown and I lost the entire thing because I'm the sort of total moron who forgets to back up their work all the damn time. I couldn't bring myself to rewrite it for ages and then I got distracted by writing other things and then finally I sat down and started writing it again. So here it is. I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> Second of all, I have done as much research as I could but there will still be historical inaccuracies here. Some of them are poetic licence but most of them are due to ignorance. Apologies to any historians who read this.
> 
> Edit 27-4-15: Having given a trigger warning in chapter 3, I now realise there should be a warning here too. So, trigger warning for a very brief but quite graphic reference to an 'off-screen' suicide in this chapter.

_London, 1876_

Xabi was not entirely sure what he had imagined the next life to be like. No doubt there had been thoughts of God and St Peter, perhaps some notion of clouds and celestial light and eternity. He was quite sure, however, that his previous self had not anticipated that it would involve shouldering his way down a crowded London street in the pouring rain, slipping on the cobblestones and almost being run over by a horse and carriage. He reached his destination in one piece and ducked into the doorway, shaking off what rainwater he could from his overcoat. 

“Nice evenin’ for it, Mr Alonso.”

“It’s a nice evening for nothing, Davey, except staying indoors with a large fire and a pot of tea.”

“Perhaps you should’ve done that then,” the doorman said with a cheeky grin. He turned the door handle and stepped aside with an ironic bow to let Xabi pass him. Xabi glared at him half-heartedly, and ducked through the door. 

He removed his coat as he stepped into the main room, handing it to a hovering attendant. “Good evening, Mr Alonso, can I get you anything?” 

“My usual, please.” Xabi was quite certain he had never seen the man before, but a large part of the success of this establishment was the flawless attentiveness of its employees –– that and their absolute discretion. He was unsurprised when the man bowed slightly and disappeared through a nearby door without a question. Xabi made his way among the scatter of leather wingback chairs and polished mahogany tables, past well-dressed men absorbed in the evening papers, and through a curtained archway into the back room. 

“Evening, Mr Alonso, haven’t seen you for a bit. Been on your travels again?”

“I have indeed, Tom. I can tell you all about it later, if you would like.” Xabi took his accustomed seat by the fire and smiled as the old man beamed at him. Tom had never been outside of London, Xabi knew, and was never likely to, but he loved to hear Xabi’s tales of the world.

“I would like that very much, Mr Alonso. Would you be needing anything downstairs tonight?”

Xabi cast a glance at the door that led to the cellars. It was tempting, but he had other plans for the night and a meeting with his solicitor in the morning. “No, thank you. But I may need a room upstairs.” An almost imperceptible flicker of an eyebrow was the only thing that gave away Tom’s surprise. It was unusual for Xabi to request this particular service but, well, he had his needs like anybody else. 

“I’ll see that a room is prepared,” was all Tom said, and left on silent feet as the attendant who had taken his coat materialised at Xabi’s elbow. Xabi suspected he had been waiting until he and Tom had finished their conversation. He placed a glass of brandy and an ashtray on the table before Xabi.

“Would there be anything else, Mr Alonso?”

“I’m expecting a guest, but I forgot to mention it to Davey when I arrived. Would you be so good as to let him know?” Xabi held out a folded piece of paper with a single name written on it. The man accepted the paper with a bow and disappeared as quietly as he had arrived, leaving Xabi alone to light up a cigarette, sip his brandy, and stare into the fire. The warmth of the room and the low murmur of voices from the other occupants provided a soothing backdrop that lulled Xabi into a near-stupor, one he only snapped out of when a dark-eyed, long-legged figure collapsed unnecessarily noisily into the chair opposite him.

“It’s nice in here, isn’t it?” the newcomer said, tipping his head back and peering around the room. “Never been in a gentleman’s club before.”

Xabi laughed. “It may be a club, but I don’t think anybody in it could be described as a gentleman. Did you have any problems getting in?””

“Nah.” A heart-stuttering, bone-melting grin. “Doorman gave me a good look up and down, but he seemed to be expecting me.”

“I don’t think anyone ever expects you, Jack,” Xabi said, and was rewarded with another smile. ““Did you bring it?”

“Straight to business is it? No time for pleasantries? No ‘nice to see you Jack’? Charming.””

“It’s nice to see you Jack. Did you bring it?” Jack reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper, and placed it on the table. Xabi picked it up and peeled the paper off, revealing a small book bound in dark green leather. The leather was worn, the pages soft and yellowed with age. “Is it authentic?”

“Do I look like an expert in ancient bloody Hindu texts? You asked me to get it and I did.”

“It’s not a Hindu text,” Xabi said absently, flicking through the pages. ““It’s not old enough to be ancient either.” He didn’t need to look up to know that Jack was rolling his eyes at him. ““Where did you get it?”

“Bought it fair and square from a bookseller on Holywell Street. Obviously.”

Xabi decided it was best not to push that line of enquiry any further. Instead he pulled out a sheaf of several notes and placed them on the table. “Is that sufficient to cover your expenses?”

Jack eyed the small pile of money, then swiped it from the table and into a pocket with one practiced movement. “That should be more than sufficient.” Xabi studied Jack as he finished the last of his brandy and Jack returned the interest, his gaze travelling slowly down Xabi’s body and then back up to his face.

“Would you like to come upstairs with me, Jack?”

Jack smiled, slow and hungry. “Why, what have they got upstairs?” he asked, all innocence.

“Beds.”

“I like beds.”

“I know.” Xabi stood up and slipped through the door, Jack at his heels. Tom was standing in the passageway as though he had been waiting for them, which he probably had. 

“Top of the stairs, fourth door on your right, Mr Alonso. If you need anything, just ring the bell.”

“Thank you, Tom.” Xabi led Jack down the passageway, past the cellar door and up an elegant staircase that opened onto a long corridor lined with doors.

“Christ, how big is this place?” Jack said, looking round at the paintings and wood panelling.

“Bigger than you think,” Xabi said, taking his hand and leading him down the corridor.

The fourth door on the right revealed a well-proportioned, dimly-lit room, sumptuously decorated, with a large four-poster bed taking pride of place. A wash stand and a large bath-tub occupied one corner of the room, a large kettle of water hung over the fire, and a small table beside the bed contained a bottle of brandy, two glasses, an ashtray and a small vial of oil.

“You spoil me, Xabi.”

“I spoil myself,” Xabi said, slipping off his jacket. “Clothes off. Get on the bed.” Jack shot him a look but began to unbutton his shirt all the same. Xabi kept his gaze on him as he peeled off the layers of clothing, drinking in the long, lean body, the dark eyes, the deceptively delicate way he carried himself; everything the opposite of the blue eyes and broad shoulders that haunted his dreams.

The ever-present itch under his skin intensified, impatient to be sated, and Xabi stalked over to the bed. Jack looked up at him and didn’t even blink when Xabi straddled his waist and pinned his shoulders to the bed. “It’s always good to see you, Xabi,” he said softly. Xabi leaned down and kissed him, took what he wanted, as much as Jack could give, until the itch became a fire that consumed him.

~~

“Are there others?” Xabi asked as they wallowed in the bath afterwards. He tipped his head back and eyed Jack through the haze of steam and cigarette smoke.

“No. You’re the only person I’ve ever been with,” Jack deadpanned, taking a drag on his cigarette. Xabi kicked lazily at him under the water.

“You know what I mean.”

“I provide services to people who need them. If I like the person well enough then those services may include sex.” Jack sipped at his brandy and looked at Xabi over the rim of his glass. ““You’re the only one I’ve let tie me up, though.”

“I’m honoured,” Xabi said dryly, sipping his own brandy.

“There’s someone else for you, isn’t there?”

“There are several someone elses for me, Jack, you know that.”

“No, I mean, someone special. Someone you’d let tie you up.” 

Xabi snorted. “That’s your definition of ‘special’, is it? How romantic.”

“What? Are you saying that wasn’t special?” Jack said with a wink. “Anyway, romance is overrated.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“There is though, isn’t there? Someone special, I mean,” Jack prodded. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. You’re not going to hurt my feelings or anything.”

“Your feelings aren’t the ones I’m worried about.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Thanks.”

“It’s complicated. I haven’t seen him for a very long time.” The words came slowly. He had never spoken of Steven to anyone. Ever.

“How long?”

“A lifetime.”

“Was he like me?”

Xabi laughed. “No, Jack, he was nothing like you.”

Jack nodded. “I thought so.” He took a long pull on his cigarette. “Where is he?”

Xabi tipped his head back and sighed at the ceiling. “I have absolutely no idea.”

~~

Xabi hadn’t anticipated going back to the club so soon. He had thought Jack would settle him down as he usually did, at least for a while, but the itch was back worse than ever. Maybe it was the conversation they’d had about Steven; maybe it was the fact the book had turned out to be completely useless. A few years ago he would have been thrilled to have it, but now it didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. Regardless, it was the very next night that he found himself nodding to Davey in greeting. 

“Evenin’ Mr Alonso, you look a bit less damp than you did the last time I saw you,” Davey said, as though the last time he saw him hadn’t been less than twenty four hours before.

“Likewise, Davey. Your job must be a lot easier on nights like this.”

“Ah, it’s never easy, Mr Alonso. Always people wanting to get in who shouldn’t. And then we’ve ‘ad people asking questions.”

“Questions?” Xabi felt a flicker of anxiety. It was highly unlikely that the place would ever be shut down, given that it was frequented by several men of influence with their mistresses and rent boys, but it was a possibility. There were other places where Xabi could get what he needed, but nowhere like this. 

“Nothin’ that Mr Smith can’t handle, sir, don’t you worry. It’s not the first time we’ve ’ad ’em sniffing round, won’t be the last.” Not feeling overly assured by this, Xabi went inside. He ignored the hovering attendant, went straight to the back room and collapsed into his chair by the fire.

“Evening, Mr Alonso,” Tom said. “What can I do for you?”

“A drink and some conversation, if you would Tom. Then some space downstairs.”

“Gladly, sir,” Tom said, and disappeared as was his wont. Xabi suspected them of having trapdoors in the floor. He returned a couple of minutes later with the usual bottle of brandy, two glasses and an ashtray. “Tell me about your adventures then, Mr Alonso,” he said, pouring them both a drink. “Where’ve you been this time?”

“Back to the Orient for me this time, Tom,” Xabi said, smiling when he saw Tom’s eyes light up. This was one of Tom’s favourite subjects and Xabi took genuine pleasure in telling him about his trip, disappointing though it had been in the end. Two months spent trekking in the Himalayas to find some mystic who, upon discovery, had turned out to be a dotty old man living in a dilapidated hut. If he ever had been a mystic, whatever great knowledge he had possessed had long since left his mind by the time Xabi had found him. His last three trips had ended in a similar manner. Xabi was beginning to think that he had spoken to all the great spiritualists there were to speak to, found out everything there was to know about his chosen area of interest. Perhaps he had gone as far as he could go.

“I think I’ll go downstairs now, Tom,” Xabi said. His empty glass rattled against the table as he put it down. 

“Very good, Mr Alonso. Everything’s prepared for you.”

“Thank you, Tom.” Tom’s smile was kind, almost paternal, and Xabi nearly tripped over in his hurry to get away from it. 

Through the door and down the stairs to the cellars, past the locked door to Mr Smith’s office and through the second door on the right; Xabi could find his way blindfolded. The distinctive smell hit him as soon as he walked through the door, the smoke hanging heavy in the air. Xabi breathed it in, his pace quickening as he crossed the ante-room and stepped through the heavy velvet curtain into the smoking room. An attendant – very beautiful, if Xabi had been of a mind to notice such things just then – led him over to a couch and he lay down with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. He picked up the ornate silver and ivory pipe from the equally ornate tray that was prepared and ready for him and lit the lamp that would heat the pipe. He glanced around the room at the figures that were already lying prone on their couches, lost inside their own heads.

Most men smoked opium because they were desperate to forget; Xabi smoked opium because he was desperate to remember.

It had been some years since Xabi had learned from an acquaintance in San Francisco that opium was the key that could unlock the memories of his past life. The higher the quality of the drug, the higher the quality of the memories; tangible and clear, as if you were actually there. Lately, however, his experiences with the drug were not what they had once been. They were just as vivid as ever, but where his early forays down memory lane had taken him to places he wanted to go, his more recent attempts had been unpleasant to say the least. The last had been the worst: Steven on the other side of the prison bars, being snatched away from him; a long, long, agonising wait – Xabi had re-lived every second of it; a razor secreted into his hand through the bars, along with the news that Steven, his Steven, was dead and taken ashore; the deep sting of the blade cutting into each wrist and then – harder this one, his hands slippery with blood but Xabi was determined – his own throat. 

The thought of experiencing that again was enough to make Xabi hesitate as he brought the pipe to his lips. But he wanted to be with Steven again, feel his skin again, taste his lips again, sit and talk with him and watch him laugh again, and until he found him in this life, this was the only way. He leaned forward, closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

~~

Xabi swam slowly back to consciousness, sitting up with some difficulty and blinking groggily. He could still smell the tang of salt in the air, mixing with the heavy scent of the opium. He felt Steven’s hand on his back; he turned to him with a smile and frowned in puzzlement as his brain tried to make sense of what his eyes were seeing. It isn’t Steven, his brain supplied, Steven isn’t here. The hand belonged to the beautiful assistant from earlier and she was speaking to him. Xabi could see her lips moving but there was no sound. He shook his head to clear it and when he looked at her again she had turned away. She turned back to him and something cool was pressed into his hand, which turned out to be a glass of water. He took a sip, and then another, and then he was gulping it down. He felt a very little better. 

“Would you like a room upstairs, Mr Alonso?” the assistant said, her kind smile at odds with her angular, slightly severe beauty. Jack would like her, Xabi thought randomly. “To rest, I mean,” she clarified.

“No thank you,” Xabi managed, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “I think I would like to go home.”

“Are you sure? It’s the early hours of the morning.”

“Yes. Please.” 

“Very well.” She stood up with a motherly pat on his shoulder. “I will ask for a carriage to be brought round.” She glided through the room towards the curtain at the far end. Xabi watched her elegant movements and wondered how she had ended up here. She looked like she should be on the stage. Then again, this probably paid better than the stage. She spoke to someone in the outer room and then came back to Xabi and held out her hand. “Come, your carriage awaits,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. Xabi managed a weak smile.

Walking was more difficult than it should have been. He was having a harder time than usual casting off the opium dream and his legs were trying to move with the motions of a ship he was no longer on. “I’ve never seen you here before,” he said. “I would definitely remember seeing you here.” He had a vague notion that this was a somewhat inappropriate thing to say, that it had a meaning other than the one he wanted to convey, but the connection between his brain and his mouth didn’t seem to be working.

“Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” she said with a laugh. ““Here we are.” Xabi blinked. They were outside, beside the carriage that was presumably to take him home, and Xabi had no idea how they had got there. It was quiet in a way that London rarely was, that strange in-between time after even the worst drunks have gone home but it’s too early for the dockworkers and market traders and paperboys to be out. He was suddenly aware of how bitingly cold the February air was. “Come on,” the woman said coaxingly as she opened the door to the carriage. “In you get.” 

Xabi clambered into the carriage and fell weakly into the seat, remembering a different collapse into a different seat; weak with hunger and exhausted from lack of sleep, he had sat heavily in a chair in the captain’s cabin to allow the ship’s doctor to examine him with his steady hands and steady eyes, and a steadier heart above all, though Xabi did not know it then. The door to the carriage closed and he leaned his head against the window. “Good night, Mr Alonso. Sleep well.” She smiled at him, like she meant it, like she didn’t pity him and his weakness and his desperate, desperate searching. He smiled back and blinked at the figure that appeared behind her; broad shoulders and blue eyes. The carriage pulled away and both the woman and the apparition were gone. Xabi closed his eyes and sank back into the seat.

~~

He had nowhere to go. For the first time since he was seventeen Xabi had no direction to pursue, no clues to hunt, no rumours to chase. He had reached a dead end. He forced down the panic and headed for Paris. Strolling among the booksellers along the banks of the Seine was bound to throw up some little nugget of information, some rare little gem he hadn’t read before that set him down a new path of exploration. But it didn’t.

Madrid followed, then Barcelona, Lisbon, Florence, Rome, Vienna. He had no plan and no real idea of what he was doing or what he was searching for except Steven, Steven, always Steven. It was in a café in Budapest, while staring blankly at the back of the newspaper of the man sitting across from him, that Xabi realised he was being ridiculous. He had always enjoyed his travels in the past. Yes, they were fuelled by the desire to find Steven, but there was also a desire to understand himself, to understand the world and his place in it. His journey so far had meaning in and of itself that made it worthwhile, regardless of the impulse that had started it. The dejection and hopelessness he had frequently felt may have tainted the experience, but they did not cheapen the endeavour. But this, aimlessly wandering around Europe with no point or purpose, this was something else altogether. This was not a way to spend a life. 

September was almost over by the time he got back to London. He still didn’t know what he was going to do next, but he felt lighter than he had for some time. There was a message waiting for him from Jack: _When you get back from your breakdown, come and see me. It’s been too long._ But when he called on him his landlady said he had been away for a month and she didn’t know when he was expected back. He left a message for Jack to get in touch when he returned, then stood despondently in the street, getting wetter and wetter, while he considered what on earth he was to do with the rest of his evening. Except for Jack, everyone he knew in London was an acquaintance at best, and he had no desire to spend any time at all with them and their inane chatter. The closest he had to a friend was probably Tom at the club.

At least at the club he would get a drink and a fireplace and some decent conversation. And there was certainly at least one old friend, down in the cellar. 

~~

“Mr Alonso,” Davey cried in greeting. “We’d given you up, Sir. You’re not usually gone this long.”

“It’s good to be home, Davey,” Xabi said with a smile. “I’ve even missed the weather.”

“Been spending too much time with foreigners, you have. It’s driven you loopy. Get inside and get dry, Sir. I’m sure Tom’s got a nice bottle of sanity for you.”

Xabi laughed. “Thank you, Davey,” he said, and ducked through the door. There was a new hovering attendant waiting for Xabi’’s coat, which dripped on the parquet flooring as Xabi handed it to him. He ran a hand through his hair and felt water run down his neck. “My usual, please. And a towel, if you could.” 

Xabi took his accustomed seat and before too long a figure appeared beside him, but it wasn’t the attendant with his drink, or even Tom. It was the woman who had assisted him the last time he was here. She was just as beautiful when he was sober; her features less perfect than he had supposed but more intriguing. Her eyes seemed to linger on him with more active interest than he remembered from before and he wished idly that he could return it. He thought again how Jack would like her. She held a towel in her hands and she passed it to him with a smile.

“Mr Smith would like to see you,” she said. Xabi stared at her. No-one ever saw Mr Smith. Xabi had wondered if he even existed, if he wasn’t just a convenient name for, perhaps, a group of businessmen who couldn’t afford to have their own names attached to such an enterprise. Yet, apparently he was real, and wanted to see Xabi. 

“Very well,” Xabi said, rising from his seat. She smiled again, and she was definitely studying him now, assessing him, albeit subtly. He followed her through the cellar door and down the steps, rubbing his hair with the towel, and wondering what sort of faux pas he could have committed, what rules he had broken, to be summoned to Mr Smith’s office like this. Or perhaps this was a courtesy paid to their best customers. Certainly, Xabi had contributed extensively to the coffers over the years.

They stopped at Mr Smith’s office and she rapped smartly on the door before turning the handle and ushering him inside. He was halfway across the room before he saw the man sitting behind the desk. He stopped dead in his tracks, the towel falling from his nerveless hands. He was barely aware of the door closing behind him. Blue eyes stared at him from across the desk before an incredulous smile spread across the man’s face. “It is you,” he said. “It really is.” His chair fell to the floor with a bang as he scrambled up and practically ran around the desk. He crossed the space between them in the time it took Xabi to blink and held Xabi’s face in shaking hands. Xabi’s knees buckled and he had to grip the man’s shoulders – Steven’s shoulders –– to stay upright. “It is you,” Steven whispered “It is, it is. It’s you. I can’t believe it. I thought I’d never…”

“Steven,” Xabi choked out. “Steven.” Xabi’s legs wouldn’t hold him up anymore, even with Steven’s help, and they sank to the floor together. Xabi felt lightheaded. “Steven, my God, my God.” Steven chuckled, and there were tears in his eyes.

“It’s so unfair,” he said. “You know my name and I don’t know yours.”

“What?”

“It’s been driving me to distraction. I’ve been seeing your face my whole life, I think I know you better than my own self, but I’ve never been able to remember your name.”

“Xabi,” he said, his smile feeling like it might crack his face wide open. “My name is Xabi.””

Steven’s eyes glowed with recognition. “Of course. Xabier Alonso Olano. How could I forget?”

Xabi laughed weakly and rested his head against Steven’s shoulder, breathing him in, and they held each other for a very long time.

~~

“Xabi?” Steven said, for what to be the hundredth time, like he couldn’t get enough of saying it. They were still sitting on the floor of Steven’s office, Xabi didn’t even know how long later.

“Hmm?”

“You still haven’t kissed me.”

Xabi smiled, his heart thudding in his chest. “You haven’t kissed me either.” Steven leaned in, and Xabi closed his eyes and tilted his head so that their lips met just so. And this, Xabi knew this, and how could this be so familiar when those lips had never touched his before, not really? How did Steven smell the same, taste the same, feel the same? Steven was trembling under his hands and Xabi could hear his breath hitch, could feel it in his mouth. “Steven,” he breathed. “Steven, don’t.” Steven shook his head.

“It’s too much, it’s too much,” he murmured against Xabi’s mouth

“Shh, no it isn’t.” Xabi kissed the side of his mouth, and then his cheek, his ear, his neck. ““It isn’t.” He made his way back to Steven’s mouth. “It’s just right. It’s perfect.”

~~

“I can’t believe you’ve been here all this time,” Xabi said. He was laid on the floor of Steven’s office, his head in Steven’s lap as Steven ran his fingers through his now dry hair. 

“And you’ve been coming here all this time,” Steven replied. Xabi felt as though he should perhaps be upset about this, about the lost years when Steven had been literally in the next room as Xabi was searching for him in his drug-induced dreams, but all he could feel was the absolute rightness of being with Steven. Perhaps later they could dwell on the horrible irony of it all, but for now Steven was here with him, and that was all that mattered. “I’d given up,” Steven said quietly. “Not entirely. I don’t think I would ever have stopped hoping, not until the day I died. But I had been looking for so long, and I never found you and…”

“And here I was.”

“Yes.” Steven’s smile was dazzling. “I walked out of the club and there you were, driving off in a carriage. I thought perhaps I was imagining it – I’d only caught a glimpse of you really. But I knew it was you. I’d know you anywhere. I asked around all the staff, found out your name, but for some reason Alonso didn’t ring a bell. Tom said you came in erratically but regularly, so I gave instructions that when you came back I was to be told immediately. And then you disappeared for months.” He frowned. “I think that was when I came closest to giving up entirely. You were right there and then you were gone. I thought fate was taunting me or something. I thought that might have been the best opportunity I would ever get, that I had missed our chance.”

“How curious. I almost gave up then too. I realised I had exhausted all my options, that I had nowhere left to look.” 

“Perhaps we weren’t meant to find each other until we stopped looking.”

Xabi nodded. “Our search has made us who we are, and now we can be together.” He thought about his search and the person he had become. He thought about what would have happened if he had met Steven as a child mourning his parents, as a seventeen year old facing the world alone, as a twenty year old filled with his own adultness yet still not rid of his youthful bravado. He could not imagine any circumstance in which Steven would not feel like the other half of a whole, and yet Xabi knew that life was more complicated than that. Would they have faced the world together, or would it all have gone horribly wrong? “What do you think would have happened, if we had met sooner?”

Steven shrugged. “I suppose it depends when we met. When did you start looking for me?”

“When I was seventeen.”

“I was twenty one. Didn’t have any money until then, there was nothing I could do but wander round London hoping to bump into you. So, say we met then. The last fifteen years would have been different. We wouldn’t have travelled the world, I wouldn’t have this place. We probably wouldn’t know any of the people we know now.” Xabi thought about Jack and smiled. It would be a shame not to know Jack. “I wouldn’t have…” he trailed off with a frown and looked away.

“You wouldn’t have what?” Xabi prompted, trying to get Steven to look him in the eye.

“I wouldn’t have – I wouldn’t be married.” Xabi felt like he had been punched in the chest. Married. Steven was married. He should have known this was too good to be true. He scrambled up from the floor and Steven quickly followed. “Xabi. Xabi, please.” He’s married. He has a wife, maybe a family. “Xabi. listen to me. Please listen to me.”

“You’re married,” Xabi said. He couldn’t stop picturing Steven with some pretty, wholesome young wife, picture him making love to her – not fucking, never fucking. It was horribly unfair of him, he knew; he had Jack after all, not to mention others to whom he was considerably less attached. But he hadn’t made a commitment to Jack, hadn’t bound himself to him by law, hadn’t joined them irrevocably for life. He knew logically that he had no right to expect Steven to have waited for him, to go through life alone with only the most remote chance that they would meet, but his heart didn’t care about logic. His heart remembered holding Steven through prison bars, telling him they would be together again. He had clung onto that his whole life and Steven had not done the same for him. What sort of a life could they possibly have with a wife in the picture? Did he even want a life with Xabi? But he’d been looking for him, he must, he– “You’re married?”

Steven took Xabi’s hands in his and Xabi yanked them away again. Steven looked like he had slapped him and Xabi felt his heart crack just a little bit more. “Yes, I’m married. I’m sorry, Xabi, I’m so sorry. I had to.”

“Had to?”

“Yes. Elizabeth, my wife and I, we have an understanding. Our marriage is a convenient arrangement that suits us both. That’s all.”

“Oh.”

“Will you sit down, please? Let me explain?” Xabi nodded and sat down in one of the chairs in front of Steven’s desk. Steven took the other one, careful not to touch him.

“I don’t know where to start. The short version is that I needed to pretend to be normal and she needed money but that makes us both sound mercenary and heartless.”

“Tell me the long version then,” Xabi said. His mind had stopped spinning but his heart was still racing and hope was clawing terrifyingly through his chest.

“Did you ever have an imaginary friend when you were a child?” 

“Not unless you count the characters in books.”

Steven shook his head. “I did. I had you.” Xabi let out a breath. “I didn’t understand then, what you were, what my memories meant. You were just there, in my head. So real and vivid. So I called you my friend and told my parents about you, told them about our adventures at sea, about battles and voyages and rescuing you from prison. I think I mixed a lot of it up with stories my cousins used to tell, tried to make it make sense. I didn’t think it was strange that you were so much older than me. I didn’t remember anything about us being, you know, together, until I was much older.”

Xabi laughed. “That’s probably for the best.”

“Definitely,” Steven said with a smile. The next moment the smile dropped from his face. “I remembered dying, though, and I told my parents about it. That was my first mistake.”

“Mistake?”

Steven nodded. “As I got older, my imaginary friend didn’t leave like he should have done and my parents became concerned. I knew it wasn’t real, I knew my friend only existed in my head, but I don’t think I ever really explained that. How you were real yet not real. I should have lied, should have kept you to myself, but I was foolish and obstinate and the more they tried to deny you, the more I clung to you and insisted you were my friend. Second mistake.” Xabi nodded. “By the time I was twelve I had stopped saying you were real, but I was still telling stories about us and I was having dreams about dying almost every night.” 

“I stopped talking about you altogether around the age of fourteen, much to my parents’ relief. I had finally caught on to the fact that it was not doing me any good. By then I also understood my memories a lot better. I didn’t know the word reincarnation but I knew I had known you before, I just knew. As time went on, I started to slip, started mentioning you again. At one point I fell ill and rambled about you through the whole of my fever. I didn’t know your name and it felt wrong somehow to give you a false one, but they knew I meant you. Apparently I talked about finding you. I was still having the dreams then, and my father had started to notice that I seemed more interested in the local boys than the local girls. When I recovered from my fever they sent me to a doctor.” Steven stopped and took a deep breath and studied the floor intently. Xabi reached out and gripped his hand. They sat quietly for a few minutes, hand in hand, while Steven gathered his thoughts.

“I think I spent three months in the asylum. It’s not as bad as you think,” he added when Xabi’s hands tightened around his. “The worst part was when they strapped us to the beds at night to keep us from touching ourselves. Masturbation causes enfeeblement, you know,” Steven said with a wry twist of his lips.

“So I’ve heard,” Xabi said.

“The doctors said ‘excessive self-pleasure’, as they put it, had caused my mind to weaken and had made me believe that my childhood imaginary friend was real, and also confused my ‘natural’ feelings as a man and twisted them into something ‘unnatural’. A few months of appropriately masculine pursuits like digging in the garden and chopping firewood, plus not touching myself of course, would see me trotting off happily free of imaginary people. They only used the straitjackets and injections on us if we resisted treatment. I only tried that once. Learned my lesson after that.” Despite what Steven had said, this all sounded really quite bad indeed to Xabi, but he forbore from saying so. He knew it could have been a great deal worse and Steven did not seem too badly damaged by the experience, even if the thought of Steven enduring any of this made Xabi feel nauseous. 

“I did what they wanted. I lay quietly in bed like a good boy and hauled around logs that we didn’t actually need and when my treatment was finished they declared me cured and sent me on my way. Everything was fine for a while. I was careful not to mention you, or any dreams or memories I had. I certainly didn’t tell anyone about the new memories that had started to return, about touching you and kissing you and, well, you know.” Steven smiled sheepishly at this and his cheeks coloured. Xabi felt something clench in his gut. “I made sure I never looked at the baker boy, no matter how appealing he looked on his bike, and I showed the girls my parents introduced me to precisely the appropriate amount of attention.”

“My parents decided I needed to get married when I was about eighteen. No-one else we knew got married so young but I think my parents were beginning to see through me. They were worried about what would happen if I didn’t find a nice girl to settle down with. The next three years, my God, I’d rather have been in the asylum.” He looked up at Xabi with pleading eyes that made Xabi’s chest ache. ““I wanted you, I only wanted you. I knew you were out there somewhere, I had to believe that. And the poor girls they paraded in front of me. I knew I could never be a good husband for any of them. It would be unfair to them and a betrayal of you.” Xabi shook his head vigorously, even though he had been thinking much the same thing only minutes before. “I held out as long as I could and then…”

“Enter Elizabeth?” Xabi guessed.

Steven smiled. “Enter Elizabeth. She was a little older than me and she didn’t want to marry either. She had inherited a lot of money from her grandfather but he had this ridiculous complicated will that meant she couldn’t get at any of the money until she married. She knew I didn’t want to marry, everyone knew that really, and she guessed at some of the reason as to why. She doesn’t miss much doesn’t Lizzie. So she proposed a deal. We would provide each other with cover and we would both get the money and freedom to do whatever we wanted, as well as keep our parents happy. How could I say no?”

Steven got up and knelt by Xabi’s chair, his hands on Xabi’s knees. “I would have waited for you if I could. I did. I’ve never loved anyone but you. I’m sorry.” Xabi slid off his chair and joined him on the floor, pulling him into his arms.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should apologise. I overreacted.”

“I wondered, at times,” Steven said, his voice muffled in Xabi’s shirt. “I wondered if they were right, if you had never existed at all. If I had just made you up because I was weak and soft. If I really were mad.”

“You’re not mad. I’m real, I’m real. I right here.” Xabi clutched at Steven’s shoulders, his back, as if he could somehow convey his realness if he just held him tightly enough. Steven clung to him in return.

“I know. I know. I never really doubted. Not really.”

“Didn’t you? I think I did, sometimes. And I didn’t have an asylum full of doctors trying to convince me.” They were quiet for a while and their grip on each other slowly loosened to something more comfortable. “I wish you hadn’t had to go through that alone.”

Steven shrugged and pulled back a little, but still stayed in Xabi’s arms. “Like you said, the search makes us what we are. And I have Elizabeth now. I told her everything, after a while, and she didn’t question, didn’t doubt me. I could not ask for a better friend. I am very, very lucky.”

“She knows about me?” Xabi asked. Somehow, this was the most surprising thing so far. “And she is, um, accepting of the situation?”

Steven laughed. “More than accepting. She’s been actively helping me. She brought you here.”

“The woman from the smoking room is your wife? Do you have any more surprises for me?” He remembered a passing thought he had had earlier. “Do you have any children?”

“No. No children. Much to my mother’s displeasure and the general disapproval of society.” Steven stood up and reached out to pull Xabi up after him. “We’ve been here a long time. It’s very late, and my wife will be wondering where I am.”

“Oh.” Disappointment crashed through Xabi once more.

“Xabi, would you like to come home with me?”

“Home? To your home? Where you live, with your wife?”

“Yes,” Steven said, laughing. “Of course. I’d like to introduce you to her properly. And…” He leaned forward and brushed his lips over Xabi’s. “I’ve waited a lifetime, Xabier.” 

Xabi blinked. “And your wife will be there?”

Steven grinned and Xabi felt rather foolish. “Well, yes, she will be in the house. And probably at the table for supper. But we have no physical interest in each other. It will just be the two of us in the bedroom.”

“Then, yes. Yes, I would like that very much.”

~~

Xabi’s hands shook as he removed Steven’s necktie. Steven’s breath was warm against his cheek. When he unfastened Steven’s collar he could see his pulse fluttering in his throat. He closed his eyes and pressed their foreheads together. “Xabi.” Steven whispered. “Xabi, I can’t. It’s too much.” Xabi thought this time he might be right. He had wanted this for so long and now that he had it he didn’t know what to do – what to do with his hands, what to do with himself. He thought about Steven in the asylum and wondered if they might both end up there, if this thing would overwhelm them and drive them both, finally, insensible. Yet he couldn’t step away, couldn’t take his hands off Steven.

“It’s alright,” he said. “Just – just kiss me and everything will be fine.” And it was. God, it was, it was so, so right. Xabi felt the distress recede as Steven’s lips moved against his, soft and unhurried. There was nothing to fear, not from Steven and the way his lips felt against his own, the twist of his fingers in Xabi’s hair, the thudding of his heart when he pulled Xabi tight against him.

Their shirts and jackets were discarded on the floor before they finally broke apart, breathing hard. “I’ve never, Xabi, I –– I waited for you. I’ve never been with anyone else.”

It took a second for Xabi to grasp Steven’s meaning. “Oh. I – oh. Not even your wife?” Steven shook his head. “Oh.”

“You have.”

“Yes. But just–” Just to be rid of you, to not think of you. “Just with my body, not with my heart.” But that wasn’t entirely true, and Xabi didn’t want to lie. Not to Steven. “Well, I suppose a little with my heart. But not my soul. That’s yours, it’s all yours.” 

“I know,” Steven said with a smile. “It’s fine, it’s not that, it’s – I don’t think I’m ready for, you know…” The blush that flooded Steven’s cheeks was perhaps the most delightful thing Xabi had ever seen. He had to force his mind back to the matter at hand. It became easier when he looked into Steven’s eyes, which had taken on a faraway look that reminded Xabi of how he had looked when he spoke about the asylum. He wondered how much of their misguided philosophy Steven had absorbed unknowingly, unwillingly, against his better judgement; how much of that scared, confused child remained in the man standing before him.

“There’s no rush,” he said. “We can do whatever you want. I want _you_ , Steven, I just want to be with you. Whether that means we end up breaking the bed or just curling up on it like a pair of cats is fine with me.”

“Cats?” Steven grinned. 

“Hush. Come here.” He pulled Steven over to the bed and lay down on it, patting the mattress beside him. Steven obeyed with a wry look. Xabi turned onto his side and nestled his head in the crook of Steven’s shoulder, wrapping his arm around Steven’s waist and hooking his leg over his thigh. He closed his eyes and sighed as he felt Steven shift beside him to return the embrace. “I’m not saying I haven’t dreamed about you fucking me until I can’t see, because I have.” Xabi felt Steven’s smile against his forehead; he was certain that if he looked up Steven would be blushing again. “But this is enough, this is more than enough. Just to be with you, Steven, just to have you here is…”

“I know. I know. I feel it too.”

“Whole. Complete.”

“Yes.”

~~

Having Steven in his life at last was everything Xabi had ever hoped for, and nothing like he had imagined. Things that Xabi had obsessed over – the way Steven gripped his thighs, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the tilt of his head across the room –– became secondary to things he had barely thought of before. Waking up leisurely with Steven wrapped around him was a luxury they had simply not had previously and so Xabi had not been able to miss it; now it was his favourite thing, or at least was on his list of favourite things. If he were honest with himself, it was quite a long list. 

Also on the list: the way Steven blinked and frowned against the morning sunlight, even if it wasn’t particularly bright, as though deeply offended that his slumber had been disturbed; the sleepy smile of delight that spread across his face when he saw Xabi lying beside him; the precise way he spread marmalade on his toast, right up to the very edges so that it ran over his fingers; the way he licked his marmalade-covered fingers clean so that Xabi had to look away, lest he embarrass himself at the breakfast table; the fact that Steven had previously been a sailor, with all that that entailed, and was now a blushing virgin seemingly unaware of the effect his finger-sucking ways had on Xabi; the way he smiled fondly at Elizabeth when she came into the room; the way Elizabeth smiled back, equally fond, and extended that smile to Xabi, as if it were entirely natural for a perfect stranger to all but move into your house, and your breakfast room, and your husband’s bed.

“Steven,” she chided as she poured coffee for herself. “Can’t you use a napkin like a civilised person? It’s like living with a chimpanzee.”

“Who’s going to see me, except you and Xabi?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “What makes you think Xabi and I want to see it?” She shot a mischievous glance at Xabi before continuing. “Well, Xabi might, but possibly not in quite this context.” Steven looked bewildered while Xabi tried and failed to hide behind his coffee cup. He was certain he must be blushing.

“What?” Steven’s forehead furrowed momentarily then cleared as understanding dawned. “Oh. _Oh_. Elizabeth!” he spluttered, as Elizabeth cackled in a most unladylike manner. Xabi looked at their flushed faces, Elizabeth’s from laughter and Steven’s from embarrassment, and knew that all the long years had been worth it. For Steven to have a friend like this, for them to have a life like this, was all worth it. 

~~

“The bed’s made of oak, you know.”

“What?”

“The bed. The first time I brought you here you said you didn’t care if we broke the bed or just curled up on it. Well, it’s made of oak. English oak. It would be very difficult to break it.”

“That sounds like a challenge, Steven.”

Steven grinned at him. “Not a challenge, just an observation.”

“Are you sure?”

“That the bed’s made of oak? Pretty sure.”

“You know what I mean,” Xabi said, forcing himself not to smile. The way Steven ran his thumb over the corner of Xabi’s lips made told him he hadn’t succeeded.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Steven said, from playful to serious in a heartbeat. “I want to be with you. I always have. I just wasn’t ready. Now I am.”

“Now you’re ready. Right now.” Xabi looked at the clock on the bedside table, at the morning sunlight pouring through the curtains. He squirmed as Steven shuffled closer to him and ran his fingers over his collarbone.

“Is that a problem?” Steven said, nipping at Xabi’s neck.

“You’ll be late for church.” 

Steven’s lips found their way to Xabi’s. “I’m not going to church,” he said in between kisses. “I’m staying here with you.” His hands slipped under the hem of Xabi’s nightshirt, raising goosebumps on his hips and back. Xabi gripped Steven’s shoulders and kissed him hard. “What am I going to learn in church?” A bite to Xabi’s lip that made him groan and then Steven was on top of him, his weight pressing him into the mattress. He scattered kisses across Xabi’s face and neck. “What is the priest going to tell me, Xabi? That fornication is a sin? That sodomy will send me to hell? We both know that isn’t true.” Xabi could feel Steven hard against him, feel the tension thrumming through his body. 

“Please. Please,” he whispered in Steven’s ear. Steven groaned and sat back to pull his nightshirt off over his head, leaving Xabi just enough space to do the same. 

The heat of Steven’s bare skin against his own was glorious. They lay there for a while, kissing leisurely, hands exploring each other’s skin, simply enjoying each other’s bodies. Steven tore his lips away from Xabi’s to place a kiss on his chin, and another on his throat. Xabi tipped his head back to allow him better access and hummed happily as Steven sucked just below his jaw. He threaded his hands through Steven’s hair, occasionally giving it a little tug, but otherwise was content to relinquish any control he had ever had over this situation and enjoy Steven’s ministrations. 

“You know,” he said, somewhat breathlessly as Steven made his way down his body, “your priest may not be as wrong as we think.” Steven squinted questioningly up at him but didn’t stop what he was doing, which was fortunate as he was running his tongue along the underside of Xabi’s hipbone in a way that Xabi particularly enjoyed. He wondered if Steven had remembered that from before or if he had just discovered it. “I mean, we died. And then there were all those years looking. Waiting. That’s kind of like purgatory.”

“So what’s this then?” Steven said with a grin. “Is this heaven, Xabi?” And then, the cheeky bastard, Steven took him into his mouth.

“Yes. God yes,” Xabi breathed as the heat enveloped him. His mind went blank. Steven was perhaps less skilled than Xabi remembered but he had lost none of his natural talent or his uncanny ability to know Xabi’s body. The warmth of his mouth was just as Xabi remembered; the palms of the hands that pushed Xabi’s thighs apart were less rough but his grip was just as firm. The movement of his head was the same, his hair was achingly familiar under Xabi’s fingers. But now they didn’t have to worry about being quiet, about being heard, about giving themselves away. Now Xabi could give in, give himself over, let go.

He climaxed with a cry that could probably be heard in the next street. Steven made his way slowly back up Xabi’s body as Xabi tried to catch his breath. “It’s strange how I remember how to do this even though I haven’t actually done it before,” he murmured against Xabi’s breastbone. “I know I’m a little rusty but all the knowledge is there. It’s a very odd feeling.”

Xabi shook his head. “Not rusty.” Steven gave him a sceptical look. “Fine, a little rusty. But more than up to the task.”

“I’d noticed,” Steven said as he finally arrived back at Xabi’s lips. Xabi could taste himself on Steven’s tongue. He grazed his hand over Steven’s chest and down his stomach.

“Do you want me to help with that?” he whispered. Steven shook his head with a smile.

“No. I remember what to do with that, too. If that’s alright?”

“Yes. Please, Steven, yes.” 

Steven reached across to the small chest of drawers beside the bed and produced a small bottle from the top drawer. “Thank God the world has moved on from tallow,” he said with a grimace as he poured oil into his hand. Xabi laughed and suppressed a shudder. “Tell me if I do anything wrong, won’t you? I think I remember this but my memory might be wrong. This is new to me, really.”

“Me too.”

Steven’s head shot up. “Really? You haven’t…”

“No. Not this. This is ours.” Steven stared at him. Before Xabi could say anything else he was pressing a deep, bruising kiss to Xabi’s mouth which Xabi returned eagerly. 

The first press of Steven’s finger was a forceful reminder that Xabi’s body had never done this before, even if his mind thought otherwise. He breathed deeply and willed himself to relax as his body rebelled against the intrusion.

Steven went slowly, took his time. He took so much time that Xabi began to wonder if it was actually possible to die from this, from being right on the edge of what you have been craving for years without actually going over. And when Steven finally, finally, slid oh so slowly inside of him, it was so startlingly familiar that Xabi nearly came undone right then and there. His head spun with how right it felt to have Steven filling him up, surrounding him. He felt known, somehow, absolutely and completely, and this was so like their first time, their other first time, that Xabi wasn’t sure where he was or what he was doing. It almost felt like one of his opium dreams, and the thought made him freeze. Steven stilled above him. “Xabi?” Steven’s voice was shattered in his ear.

“Are you — is this a dream?” 

Xabi couldn’t tell if the choked sound Steven made was a laugh or a sob, but then he was moving again and it didn’t matter. “No,” he gasped, his breath burning Xabi’s neck. “This is real. I’m real, you’re real. We are here.”

They lay tangled together afterwards, the entirely unromantic sticky mess between and beneath them testament to the fact that they were not a figment of each other’s imaginations. Xabi wondered how many more times they would do this, how many more first times they would have. The thought of once again going through what he had been through in this lifetime chilled him, but if it led to this, this bewildering joy of familiarity and discovery, perhaps it might be worth it. Perhaps.

~~

Xabi returned to his house about once a week to deal with any business and to reassure his long-suffering, impossibly patient housekeeper that he was indeed still alive. It should have been alarming how quickly he had started thinking about it as a ‘house’ rather than a ‘home’, but like many things these days it just seemed natural. Home was with Steven and Elizabeth in their apartments above Steven’s club, and this place, while comforting and fondly thought of, was no longer where he belonged. He had moved on. Perhaps one day he would be able to sell it and just live with them without all the back and forth, but for now he needed to maintain the appearance of just being their friend, albeit one who was at their house a lot.

The figure standing in the hallway when he opened the front door seemed to belong there so naturally that for a moment Xabi didn’t even question his presence. “Jack. How good to see you.”

Jack turned and smiled. “I was just leaving you a note.” He waved his pen at Xabi. “Don’t need to do that now.” He glanced over his shoulder, towards the kitchen, but the hallway was deserted. Then he cupped Xabi’s face and pressed their lips together. Xabi responded to the kiss automatically before he thought about what he was doing. He gasped and pulled his head away. Jack frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” Xabi bit his lip. He hadn’t thought about this. He should have thought about this.

Jack studied him for a moment before nodding. “You found him?” 

Xabi tried not to smile, he really did for Jack’s sake, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his face, and Jack was smiling too so maybe it was alright. “Yes,” he whispered.

“I’m glad for you, Xabi. Really, I am.” His smile took on a tired slant. “Does this mean we’re done?”

“No,” Xabi said, too forcefully; he took them both by surprise. “I mean, we’re friends aren’t we?” Xabi clenched his hands at his sides to keep them from shaking as he realised in one drowning rush how important the man in front of him had become. Jack had held him together these past five years; Xabi didn’t like to think about mess he had been when they met. He couldn’t lose him. “Surely there was more to us than rare books and sex.”

“I thought there was. You were never just a job to me, Xabi, though you were a very good job. I will always be your friend. I don’t think I’ll be sitting around sharing a brandy with the two of you, if you don’t mind, but if you ever need anything.”

“Likewise,” Xabi said, the trembling subsiding, though he still felt shaken. “Though I wouldn’t mind that brandy one day, if you don’t mind. Just you and me. No Steven.”

“Steven is it?” He looked thoughtfully at Xabi. “Maybe one day.” Xabi nodded. He would have to be content with that; he could not reasonably expect anything more. Jack suddenly turned away and began scribbling something on the paper he had left on the table when Xabi walked in. “I almost forgot,” he said, turning back to Xabi and handing over the paper with a flourish and his usual smile. “My new address. I’ve had to move.”

“Why? I thought you were your landlady’s ideal tenant. You pay your rent on time, you never have visitors and you’re always out.” Xabi took the paper and looked at the address. It was nowhere near Jack’s old address, or any of his usual haunts.

“New landlords bought her out,” he said, with a significant look that made Xabi think she had not gone willingly. “Now they’re trying to recruit me. I told them I’m a free agent, but they didn’t seem to like that. They want everything nice and organised, don’t they? So I’m going to lie low for a bit, hope they forget about me.”

“Is this going to end with you being pulled out of the Thames?” 

“Not if I can help it,” he said with a grin.

“Jack! I’m serious.”

“So am I, why do you think I’m moving? I’ll be fine Xabi, I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. Look, do you need anything? Money or, or… anything?”

“I appreciate that but I’m not a charity case. If you’ve got a job for me then great, but otherwise I don’t want your money.” He looked pointedly at Xabi who reluctantly shook his head. There was nothing he needed Jack to do for him anymore. “Alright then. I might have to move again but I’ll let you know if I do. I can leave a message here?”

“Yes. You can stay here, if you need to. I’m not around much but my door’s always open to you.” Jack looked dubious. “Please promise me, Jack. Please.”

“Fine. I promise.” He looked at Xabi and gave a deep sigh followed by one of those smiles that never failed to tug at Xabi’s gut. “I have to go. I’m glad to know you Xabi. Thank you for letting me in, at least a little bit. And I’m glad you’ve found your boy.” He dropped a kiss on Xabi’s cheek and was gone before Xabi had chance to catch his breath.

~~

“Are you alright?” Steven asked as they lay in bed, sheets tangled round their legs. The chill air settled on their cooling skin; the fire had died down in the grate and only a few glowing embers remained. Xabi untangled the sheets and pulled the blankets up around them. “Are you alright?” Steven said again when they had settled down.

“I’m fine,” Xabi said automatically. Steven gave him a dubious look. “I ran into an old friend today. I’m worried about him.”

“Friend? Why are you worried about him.”

“Lover, I suppose. I think he’s in trouble.”

“Lover, ‘you suppose’? Why is he in trouble?”

Xabi suppressed a growl. “Can we stop trying to have two conversations at once and deal with what’s obviously bothering you first?”

“Very well. Why is your friend in trouble?”

“Not that part, Steven.”

“The lover part? I’m not bothered about you running into an old lover. They don’t matter.” Steven laced his fingers through Xabi’s. “Or was this the one that matters?”

“This was the one that matters,” Xabi whispered.

“That’s alright,” Steven said with a smile, combing his fingers through Xabi’s hair.

“Is it alright that I kissed him?” Steven’s fingers hesitated but his smile didn’t waver. 

“That depends. Why did you kiss him?”

“Because he kissed me and it is normal for me to kiss him back, so I did. I didn’t even think about it. I just did it. I stopped almost straight away, but I still did it.” Steven didn’t say anything, just continued to run his fingers through Xabi’s hair with that inscrutable smile. It was a little unnerving. “I didn’t even think about you at first,” Xabi rambled, slightly horrified at his inability to control his own mouth. “I’m so used to not thinking about you when I’m with him, that’s why I liked him, because when I was with him I could forget about you for a while. But then I remembered that you’re here now, there’s no need to try to forget you, and it’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to him and —” Stephen’s finger pressing against his lips cut Xabi off quite effectively.

“Hush. I don’t mind that you kissed this man. I don’t mind that you love him.” Xabi started to protest but Steven shook his head. “I think you do. I think that’s why you have been on edge ever since you got back this afternoon, because you love him and you think he’s in trouble so you’re worried about him, and because you feel guilty because you think you should only love me.” Steven shifted on the bed so he could take both Xabi’s hands in his. Xabi could only stare at him. “Xabi, we risked death to be together, we were _killed_ for being together and it still couldn’t keep us apart. I searched the world for you and found you looking for me. That transcends everything. I am not threatened by this man you care about, that you love, any more than I would be threatened by your love for a parent or sibling or child. It is not the same as what is between us. I have doubted many things in my life, including myself, but I have never, ever doubted you, and I do not doubt you now.”

Xabi opened his mouth to say something, anything in return, but he had no idea what the words might be, and he doubted he could get them out if he knew. Instead, he kissed him, and hoped that he could somehow convey something of what he felt. “Thank you,” he stammered when they broke apart. “For, you know, being you.” Steven laughed.

“Well, I don’t know who else to be so there’s not much to thank me for there. But you’re welcome. Now, tell me about this trouble your friend’s in.”

~~

“The Carlisles,” Steven announced as he walked into the drawing room where Xabi and Elizabeth were decorating the Christmas tree. They looked blankly at each other, then at him.

“What?” Xabi asked, as Elizabeth resumed hanging baubles.

“Your friend Jack’s new landlords. The Carlisle brothers.” He pulled a face.

“You know them?”

“I know their reputation. Everyone does.”

“I don’t.”

“Three brothers. Unpleasant fellows, to say the least. Just about every criminal in the East End works for them, pays protection money to them or owes them in some capacity, and some of the constables too. They’ve got their fingers in the opium trade, counterfeiting, gambling, prostitution, racketeering. They have quite the empire.”

Xabi slowly sat down in the nearest armchair and attempted to take all this in. He felt a hand slip into his and he smiled gratefully at Elizabeth, who had come to perch on the arm of the chair. “And now they want to expand their empire to Islington?” 

“Amongst other places. It seems they want to spread west and have been buying, if we can call it that, properties in several places, including Jack’s accommodations in Islington. They’re ambitious, you’ve got to give them that.”

“Yes, very admirable. Is Jack in danger from these people?” Steven knelt on the floor beside the chair and took Xabi’s free hand. He had the look of someone who did not want to say what they were about to say.

“That depends. If all they were concerned about was having a free agent on their turf, acting outside of their control, then his moving away should solve the problem.” Steven studied their joined hands and ran a finger over Xabi’s knuckles.

“But…” Xabi prompted.

“But, well, he’s not your average thief, is he?”

“He prefers ‘obtainer of goods’,” Xabi said with a smile.

“Does he now? Well, he steals — sorry, ‘obtains’ things to order doesn’t he? His clients are all like you, all wealthy? I mean, he has _clients_. Normal thieves don’t have clients and they don’t call themselves obtainers. They just take things and hope they don’t get caught.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Steven. No, of course he’s not your average thief, but you haven’t answered my — oh.” Xabi could kick himself. He may not operate quite as close to the edge of legality as Steven did, but he was a man of the world and he wasn’t stupid. Of course Jack was in danger from the Carlisle brothers. Of course he was. If they couldn’t recruit him as they wanted they were hardly likely to allow him to just carry on. They would want his clients, his contacts. Even if he laid low for a while, they wouldn’t want him turning up later on to potentially ruin what could be a very lucrative branch of their business. Far easier to just get rid of him quickly. “What should we do?”

“Nothing, for the time being,” Steven said, squeezing his hand. “Jack’s on the other side of London and for now the Carlisles are busy setting up their new enclaves. I’m keeping an eye on things, and if it seems like they’re making any sort of a move on Jack, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“That’s your plan? We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it?” Xabi stood up and began pacing up and down the carpet. Steven and Elizabeth watched him solemnly. “Am I just supposed sit here and wait for them to do God knows what to him and then hope to come up with a solution before it’s too late?”

“What else would you have us do, Xabi? Wage war on the Carlisle brothers?” Elizabeth said. Xabi rounded on her.

“Yes, if necessary,” he snapped. Jack was in danger and all Steven and his wife could do was sit there and judge him and refuse to help. “Do you want him dead, is that it?” he said to Steven. “Everything you said about not being threatened by him, did you mean any of it? Are you trying to get rid of him?”

Steven stared at him, horrified. “Xabi, no—” he began. 

“Then why won’t you help? You have half the House of Lords sitting downstairs, you could have these Carlisles arrested if you wanted. But you don’t want to, do you?” Xabi would have continued but was interrupted when Elizabeth stood up, her jaw clenched and her lips tight.

“How dare you?” she hissed. “Do you have any idea what he’s been through, how much he —” she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Get out, and don’t come back until you’ve come to your senses.”

Xabi glanced at Steven who shook his head, looking pained. Xabi nodded and walked out. The last thing he saw as the door shut behind him was Steven burying his face in his hands as Elizabeth ran comforting fingers through his hair.

~~

St James’ Park was quiet as Xabi walked along, kicking at the last of the fallen leaves. Sensible people were indoors in front of a fire, and even senseless people seemingly had better places to be. Xabi belonged in a third category all to himself, more stupid even than the senseless people. The wind was bracing and he huddled deeper in his coat and turned up the collar. His feet carried him to the edge of the lake and he stared forlornly at the ducks as he tried to make sense of the last couple of hours. Somehow he had gone from cheerfully hanging Christmas decorations with Elizabeth to accusing Steven of the most horrible things. The look on Steven’s face when he had asked him if he wanted Jack dead would haunt Xabi for the rest of his life. Steven who had been so understanding, who had accepted Xabi’s past with Jack without a murmur, who didn’t care that Xabi still loved him, who had understood Xabi’s feelings better than Xabi had himself. Steven who, unasked and unlooked for, had taken it upon himself to find out what he could and try to help, simply because this was someone Xabi cared about and so Steven cared about him too. And Xabi had taken all that love and trust and stomped all over it. He could not blame Elizabeth for throwing him out. He shivered as another icy blast made its way through the fibres of his coat. He was going to catch his death out here. He needed to go home and talk to Steven. Dusk was falling.

It seemed to take a long time for him to get back; he had walked further than he realised. By the time he was slipping through the door it was dark and his fingertips were numb despite his gloves. Elizabeth must have seen him coming from the window because she was waiting for him in the hallway. She took his gloved hands in hers and kissed him on the cheek. “I understand that you feel guilt because of your relationship with this man, but do not ever take those feelings out on Steven or blame him for them. He has burdens of his own without bearing yours too.” She gave him that smile again, the one filled with caring and understanding. The one that made him feel worse instead of better. What she said next made him think that perhaps that was deliberate. “I am very fond of you Xabi, and I like having you here. You make Steven happy. Should you start making him unhappy, however, I would have to reconsider my tolerance of you in my home, however reluctant I may be to do so.” She nodded her head towards the drawing room then turned and disappeared down the passageway that led to the club. Xabi slipped off his coat and gloves and tossed them haphazardly onto a chair, took a deep breath, and stepped through to the drawing room.

Steven sat by the fire with a book open in his lap, though it was clear from the blank way he stared at the page that he was not reading it. The door swung shut behind Xabi with a soft thud; Steven looked up at him warily. “I’m sorry,” Xabi said, rooted to the carpet. “I shouldn’t have said… what I did.”

“I can’t have them arrested Xabi, I really can’t.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could.”

“I know.”

“I provide privacy and discretion and they allow me to stay in business. That’s the deal. I cannot ask for further favours.”

“I know, Steven. I know.” Xabi’s legs remembered how to work and he crossed the room to Steven’s couch. He wanted to sit by him, to take him in his arms, but he did not know if he would be welcome. He settled for kneeling on the floor beside him in a reversal of their earlier positions. He watched Steven’s hands twisting in his lap and longed to still them but he refrained. “I should not have asked it of you, should not have expected it. I don’t expect it, not really.” He leaned his forehead against the cushion and sighed as he attempted to find the words to explain something he didn’t really understand. He tensed when Steven rested his hand on the back of his head, then relaxed as his thumb stroked his scalp hesitantly. 

“Elizabeth thinks you feel guilty about Jack but are, how did she put it? Too emotionally stunted and ignorant to cope with human feelings.”

“Yes, she said as much to me when I returned.” Xabi sighed again. “She may be correct. My whole life has been about you and I never really considered how I felt about anyone else. My parents died when I was young, I have no siblings. My uncle was a good man, and kind in his way, but we were not close. There have been few people I have felt real affection for. I have read a lot, but perhaps not all the right things. I thought I knew all about love because of you, and so I never learned about its different forms. I do not understand my own heart, and so I did not notice when Jack slipped inside it. Until I found you it did not matter. I thought you had my whole heart, but now I have you and Jack is still there and I don’t know what to do.” He looked up at Steven, searching his face for answers.

“You do not have to do anything, Xabi, I told you that. Your heart is bigger than you realise. There is room for lots of people in there.” He grinned suddenly, though the tension remained around his eyes. “Think of me as a landlord. I may own your heart, but that doesn’t mean other people can’t live there.” Xabi snickered. Steven’s face relaxed and his smile grew softer. He ran his thumb along Xabi’s jaw. “It has been hard for me too, you know,” he said quietly. “I thought that when I found you everything my parents and the doctors had told me would fall away, that it would be easy. In a way it was; being with you has never felt anything but right. But it creeps back in sometimes. I will wake abruptly in the middle of the night and have to check that you really are lying beside me, that I didn’t just dream you. Today, when you said what you did, I wondered if there was truth in it. If I had allowed my ‘weak mind and feeble spirit’ as the doctors put it, to be overcome by jealousy without even realising it. Sometimes I sit in my office downstairs and instead of working on the accounts I will think about you in the smoking room all that time and wonder if I am enough, if you wouldn’t prefer that version of me.” 

Xabi gasped and shook his head vigorously “No,” he began, but Steven cut him off with a sad smile. 

“I know. I know deep down that you wouldn’t. But these are my fears, and fears do not listen to reason. Sometimes I come up here when I have finished with work and I stand in that doorway there and watch you and Elizabeth laugh quietly together or read by the light of the same lamp and I am so impossibly happy that I ache with it. I am far luckier than I deserve to have even one of you let alone both. But then I think about my parents. What they would say if they knew of our situation, of the three of us living here together. For certain they would say we are mad, depraved, evil. And sometimes I think perhaps they are right.”

“No.” Xabi would not let Steven talk over him this time. “No. Don’t think that. I don’t ever want you to think that.”

“But I do think that. Perhaps not evil, but we are mad, aren’t we? It’s madness to live as we do, love as we do. But I don’t mind. That’s the thing, Xabi. I don’t mind being a little bit mad. Not anymore. Better that than to deny ourselves and who we are.”

Xabi stared at Steven, aware that his mouth was hanging open. “I had no idea,” he whispered finally. “I mean, that you felt like that. About any of it. I didn’t know.”

“And I didn’t know about Jack and what he meant to you. Because you didn’t tell me, just like I didn’t tell you about this. I knew Jack existed and I inferred that he was important to you, but you never told me that yourself. Just like you knew about my time in the asylum and had probably inferred that I still struggle with it at times. We’re both so used to not speaking about these things that it’s all we know how to do. But I think we need to stop keeping them to ourselves and tell each other. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Xabi said, his throat dry.

“For example,” Steven said, his voice dropping and his eyes shining. “I think I should tell you that not only do I not mind that we’re a little mad, I also don’t mind that we’re a little depraved.”

“What—” Xabi began, before Steven’s lips silenced him. He hadn’t even had chance to react when Steven broke the kiss with a smile and pulled Xabi to his feet. Expecting Steven to stand also and lead him to the bedroom, Xabi stumbled when Steven tugged on his hand instead and Xabi found himself straddling Steven’s thighs. 

“You know,” Steven said, pulling Xabi’s head down so he could pepper his jaw with kisses. “We have never made love in this room.”

“That’s because we, ah, we live here with your wife and several servants,” Xabi said, trying to keep his wits about him as Steven latched onto the sensitive skin just below his ear and sucked. “Any one of them could walk in on us.”

“My wife is working and wouldn’t care even if she did walk in on us,” Steven said making quick work of Xabi’s necktie and unbuttoning his collar. “The servants know better than to walk into a closed room without knocking, particularly since you moved in.” Steven traced his fingers over the front of Xabi’s shirt and rested them on the waistband of his trousers. “Do you have any more objections, Xabier?”

Xabi cupped Steven’s face in his hands and kissed him softly. “No. No objections.”

~~

Xabi tore through the house looking for Steven or Elizabeth or anyone who could help him, eventually colliding with a harried-looking kitchen maid who told him that they were both downstairs in the club. He raced down the stairs, clattering through doors and cracking his shoulder on a banister. Hardly noticing the pain, he burst into the Steven’s office to the great alarm of Steven, Elizabeth and a rather stern looking gentleman Xabi had never seen before. Xabi clung to the doorframe, trying to catch his breath. “Xabi,” Steven said, collecting himself after only a moment of staring in consternation. “This is Mr Johnston, from the Inland Revenue. Apparently he needs to check that the papers in my office match the papers I submitted to his superiors. Mr Johnston, this is my friend Mr Alonso.” Xabi barely heard any of this, and only just managed to stumble through an appropriately polite greeting. Steven rounded the desk and took hold of Xabi’s elbow. “Are you alright? What’s happened?” Before Xabi had a chance to answer, Steven turned to Johnston. “Would you excuse us? There is some personal business I must attend to. Elizabeth can help you with anything you need.” And he hauled Xabi out into the corridor and shut the door behind them.

“Jack’s missing,” Xabi choked out, having finally got enough air into his lungs.

“Missing? What do you mean, missing?”

“I went to his house. The door to his rooms was wide open and the place was a mess, as if there had been struggle. One of the neighbours said there had been ‘a right ruckus’ yesterday and Jack hadn’t been seen since.” Xabi ran a hand through his hair. “They’ve taken him, haven’t they?”

“We don’t know that,” Steven said in his most soothing tone. “Maybe they came for him and he got away.”

Xabi shook his head, in no mood to be soothed. “He would have gone to my house. He promised me, and he would not break a promise to me. Even if it was only to leave a note telling me where he had gone. I’ve just come from there. No Jack, no note. Mrs Miller says she hasn’t seen him for weeks.”

Steven looked thoughtful; Xabi watched him expectantly. He could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he went through their options. It did not take long. There were not many options. “We need to find out if they have him, and if they do, where. Come with me.” He tugged Xabi down the hallway, up the back stairs and out into the street. Then he quickly pulled him back inside and shut the door. He took Xabi’s face in his hands. “It’s going to be fine. We will find him and we will sort this out.” He pressed a quick kiss to Xabi’s lips, opened the door again and led him outside. 

~~

It wasn’t going to be fine. They weren’t going to sort this out. They had found him, however, and Xabi supposed he should be grateful for small mercies, though it would be easier to be grateful if they weren’t all about to die. Not for the first time, he cursed Steven’s informant, whose inside knowledge of the security of the place Jack had been taken to was somewhat incomplete. He tested the ropes binding his wrists, but they showed no more sign of giving way than they had the first twelve times he had tried. He felt Steven shuffle behind him and then a hand slip awkwardly into his. Across the room, Jack stirred but showed no real sign of waking. “I’m sorry,” Xabi whispered.

“None of this is your fault,” Steven said forcefully, squeezing Xabi’s hand.

“Of course it is. You wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for me. And I should have tried harder with Jack, kept him safer. I shouldn’t have just let him walk out of my house like that.”

“Jack is a grown man capable of making his own decisions. What were you going to do, keep him prisoner?” 

“You’re not disputing that it’s my fault you’re here I notice.” 

“Where else would I be? Besides, this was inevitable, wasn’t it?” The resignation in Steven’s voice made Xabi’s heart ache.

“What do you mean?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.

“Come, Xabi. We were never going to be allowed to have this. Not forever. You would think we would learn after last time. But I was foolish enough to hope.”

“So was I,” Xabi said, leaning his head back with a sigh. If he arched his back he could just about get his shoulders to brush against Steven’s around the post they were both tied to.

“Do you think next time will be better?”

“It could hardly be worse.”

“Xabi!” Steven said, with what could almost be called a laugh. “It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

Xabi thought of his briefly happy childhood, the chill emptiness after his parents had gone, the long search for knowledge, for answers, for Steven. The thrill of chasing down new clues, of travelling from one end of the world to the other, seeing things most people would never dream of, places his friends had never heard of. The long descent into the opium dreams and the slow rise out of them. Jack and his laugh and his very particular moral code and the way he had brought something into Xabi’s life that Xabi had never thought to seek for, and the way he was lying now, his face a bloody mass of bruises, his legs bent awkwardly underneath him. Lazy Sundays when they had given up even the pretense of going to church and being respectable people, Xabi wrapping himself around Steven to prevent him from leaving the bed. Morning coffee and afternoon tea, Elizabeth promising to be back for supper and then failing to leave her lover’s house before the following morning. Firelight glinting golden off Christmas tree decorations as the three of them reclined in comfortable silence, their odd little family settling into routines and traditions that would end now before they had even got started.

“I would do it all again,” Xabi said, feeling his throat close up. “For you. To be with you.”

“Aww, how sweet,” a new voice said. Xabi turned his head to the door; behind him he could feel Steven attempt to do the same. “Y’know, I’m not so sure I want to be making my offer to people like you.”

“So don’t make it,” Steven said brightly. “Let us go.”

“Nice try. There’s only one way you’re getting out of here still breathing and you know it.”

“Let’s hear it, then,” Xabi said, knowing perfectly well what the offer was going to be. There could only be one reason why they hadn’t been killed outright when they had been caught trying to sneak Jack out. They had only one thing the Carlisle brothers could possibly want.

“That place of yours on St James’s Street,” Carlisle said, addressing Steven. “I want it.”

“Well, it’s not mine to give you,” Steven said.

“I know the building isn’t. But the club is. And judging by your fine clothes and the notes we found in your coat and all the information we managed to pry out of your friend over there —” he smiled and tipped his head towards Jack “— I’d say that club is the kind of business my brothers and I definitely want to get into.” He crouched down beside them where they could both see his leering smile and cold eyes and spread his hands as if he were making an offering. “I’m a reasonable man. I’m not going to take all of it. You’re a man of business and I respect that. You would continue to run the place as you have always done and live upstairs with your wife and your friend here, and in return for allowing you to live, we will take our fair share of the profits. Say, 80%.” Xabi felt Steven stiffen. “As long as you keep paying what you owe, you’ll be keep breathing.”

“Your threat doesn’t make sense,” Xabi said, knowing as he said it that it was hopeless. “We’re your only way into the business and if you kill us you lose that. If you want in, we need to be alive.”

“He needs to be alive,” he said, pointing at Steven. “You don’t.”

“I can assure you of my complete lack of co-operation if you kill him,” Steven said. “You’ll have to kill both of us or neither of us, and as Xabi said, you need us alive.”

The man nodded. “That’s what I thought. And you make a good point, there does appear to be a flaw in my offer. But I think you have failed to understand something. You seem to think that this puts us at a stalemate, but it does not. It is true that if I kill you I will not get the club. But I don’t have the club now, do I? And so I will not have lost anything by killing you. I will be in the same position I am in now. You’re the only ones with something to lose.”

There was a long silence. “Very well,” Steven said. “If that’s what it takes.” The man smiled slowly and Xabi dropped his head back against the post. Damn Steven. He should have known he would do this, try to save Xabi. There was no chance he would hand his club over to these thugs if it were only his life under threat. Steven may be a facilitator of sin and vice, but he could not live with himself if he were party to the sort of suffering these men caused on a daily basis. Steven’s mind had been almost broken once and Xabi would not spend his life watching it fracture again under the weight of that kind of guilt. Not when there was another way, when they could start over. 

“Steven, no. Don’t do it. Please. You were right, this was inevitable.”

“Xabi,” Steven said, sounding horrified. “I can’t let you die.”

“What is death to us? It’s a pause, a break. We will be together again. I still believe that. Don’t you believe that?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then let this life go, Steven.” Xabi spared a thought for Elizabeth who they would be leaving widowed and bereaved, and Jack who they were condemning to death, if he were not condemned already. But they were secondary to Steven. Always, always Steven. “Let go and we will find each other again.”

Carlisle was looking between the two of them in increasing bewilderment. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t care. Are you taking the deal or not?” Xabi held his breath.

“I’m sorry, Mr Carlisle, but I’m afraid I will have to reject your kind offer,” Steven said. Xabi let out a sigh as relief and fear rushed through him.

Carlisle looked from one to the other. “You’re both mad,” he said.

“A little bit mad, yes,” Steven said, and Xabi could hear the smile in his voice. “At least I won’t have to worry about my taxes.” Xabi wanted to laugh but his gaze fell on Jack, silent and unmoving, and the sound caught in his throat. Perhaps death would be the better option for him too, now. 

His view was blocked by a pair of legs as Carlisle walked in front of him; a second later a gun was pointing at his face. He closed his eyes, not wanting his last sight to be of the man’s stained, ill-fitting trousers. This all seemed to be happening very quickly now, after all the waiting. He focused on the sound of Steven’s breathing, the weight of Steven’s hand in his. The last thing he felt was Steven’s fingers squeezing his tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said at the end of the previous chapter that the other lives wouldn't be as depressing. Sorry. Apparently I was wrong about that.
> 
> I realise this is not an accurate depiction of drug adiction, particularly a highly adictive, damaging drug like opium. There is a LOT of poetic licence at work here, I'm sorry. It is Steven that Xabi craves, not the opium. 
> 
> There was almost certainly no establishment like Steven's in London during this period. In fact, [there were very few opium dens at all](http://vichist.blogspot.co.uk/2009/03/opium-dens-and-opium-usage-in-victorian.html), and they were all pretty seedy. The opiate of choice in London at the time was laudanum, and it was available over the counter as a painkiller and was consumed in the home. The opulent, extravagant opium dens found in China never really came to Britain, though they did go to Paris and San Francisco, which is where Steven got the idea of combining one with a gentlemen's club (which _were_ numerous in London) and a brothel (ditto). 
> 
> There really _was_ a belief amongst many Victorian authorities that masturbation causes enfeeblement. In fact, they had [some pretty weird ideas about sex in general](http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/s/sex-and-sexuality-19th-century). Steven's time in the asylum occurs during a brief period when Victorian psychiatry moved away from drugs and surgery and electroshock therapy as treatment for homosexuality. It was believed that appropriately manly, outdoorsy pursuits such as chopping down trees and building things would restore masculinity and 'natural' inclinations. This period did not last long and Steven receives his treatment as the straitjackets and drugs are starting to come back in. I cannot for the life of me find the sources I had for this but I swear I didn't make it up.
> 
> I'm not going to give a timeframe for the next chapter going up, or attempt to guess how depressing it might be, as I clearly can't be trusted. Hopefully it won't take me seven months this time.


	3. The Normandy Landings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't given any warnings on this fic so far because, well, it's about reincarnation. Major character death in various forms is to be expected. However, I think I need to warn that this chapter contains the 'off-screen' suicide of a minor character and a conversation about that suicide that might be upsetting or triggering for some people.
> 
> The fic is now entering a period of history that many people who are alive today actually lived through. I have tried to be as respectful and accurate as I can.
> 
> This chapter probably isn't at all what people were expecting and I'm a bit nervous about it. I hope you like it.

_Northumberland, England, 1930_

“Xabi! Xabi!” The wind tore Stevie’s voice away, whipping it across the sand so fast she could hardly hear it herself, let alone hope that Xabi would. She tried again anyway. “Xabi!” The wind picked up, tugging at the ribbons in her hair and whirling sand in her face. The sky was turning steadily darker and she could hear the waves beating against the shore beyond the dunes. She had to find him, he had to be here somewhere…

There.

A tousled head appeared between two dunes to her left, over towards the rocks. Of course. The rest of him quickly followed, struggling up the slippery incline, and she ran forward to help him. 

“What are you doing here?” he shouted over the wind as she pulled him over the rise. From here she could see the churning ocean, dark grey and angry under the darkening sky, and coming rapidly closer as the tide came in as quickly as the storm.

“Looking for you, you idiot.” A large drop of rain landed on their joined hands and another on Xabi’s cheek. Drat. She had hoped they would beat the rain. Her mother was going to kill her.

“Come on,” Xabi said, tugging her towards home, and together they ran.

~~

“You and that boy,” her mother said as they knelt by the fire. Her dress was hanging over the back of a chair to dry and her mother was rubbing her hair with a towel as water dripped down her neck and onto her slip. The rain lashed against the kitchen window and the only light came from the fire and a small lamp on the table. “What were you thinking? What sort of behaviour is this for a Sunday? Don’t roll your eyes at me young lady, I’m serious.” Stevie should have known her mother would know what her face was doing even when she couldn’t see it. She was sure she had supernatural powers. “Your best dress is probably ruined.”

“It’s rainwater, Mam, it’s not going to ruin it. Anyway, it’s only cotton and it’s been darned more times than Da’s socks. It’s hardly best.”

“Well, it’s the best you’ve got and the best you’re likely to,” her mother said sharply. “So less of your cheek.” The towelling grew more vigorous and Stevie winced as it pulled her hair but she didn’t say anything. “Where were you to get so wet, anyway?”

“The beach,” Stevie said without thinking. “I had to find Xabi before the storm came in,” she added quickly, realising too late that she had made it worse. Her mother dropped the towel and spun Stevie around to face her.

“Stephanie Georgina Gerrard, you know better than that. And so does Xabi. Going down to that beach with the tide coming in. What if you’d been cut off? And with a storm coming in.” She broke off with a shudder. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“Exactly, Mam. You know what Xabi’s like. He loses track of time, especially when he’s upset. I had to find him.” Her mother sighed.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m very fond of Xabi but you are my daughter and it’s you I worry about. You are not to do anything like this again, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mam,” Stevie said. It wasn’t really a lie. Just because she wasn’t going to listen didn’t mean she didn’t understand. If Xabi needed her she would go to him, it was as simple as that. They had met when they were still babies in their cribs and the next ten years had been marked by one escapade after another, the common feature in all of them being that they both lived in eternal fear of something happening to the other. Stevie didn’t know what or why, but somewhere deep inside her she knew that one day Xabi would be taken away from her.

“What was Xabi upset about, anyway?” her mother said, picking up a comb and beginning to tease out the knots the wind had tied into Stevie’s hair.

“He argued with his dad. Again.”

“What was it this time?”

Stevie shrugged. “Dunno. Probably me.”

“Don’t say ‘dunno’, Stephanie.”

“Sorry. If I say ‘don’t know’ properly d’you think Xabi’s dad will forget that we’re poor?”

“Xabi’s dad wants to find more important things to care about,” her mother said, pulling hard on Stevie’s hair. Stevie gasped. “Sorry, that was a bad one. There’s lots of folk losing their money these days. He might find there’s less difference between us than he thinks.”

~~

“He’s never going to marry _you_ , you know,” a voice hissed from behind her. Stevie turned away from where her mother was haggling over the price of potatoes, which was, apparently, absolutely ridiculous these days. Violet Carrick was standing near the butcher’s stall, glaring at her.

“No one wants to marry me, Violet. I’m ten.”

“Don’t be stupid. Well, more stupid. You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“One day, when we’re older, you think Xabi’s going to marry you. Well, he’s not,” she spat.

Stevie laughed. “And what? He’s going to marry you instead?”

“Yes,” she said with a smirk. “I’m the prettiest girl in the village. Why wouldn’t he want to marry me?”

“Well, for a start, you’re not very nice, are you?” Stevie said, laughing again as Violet turned bright red with anger. “But don’t worry, I don’t want to marry Xabi. Or anyone else.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to marry anyone,” Stevie said. Violet’s anger seemed to dissipate as she contemplated this new idea.

“What, no one? Not even Xabi?”

“Not even Xabi.”

“But… but you have to.”

“Why?”

“Because, well, because you have to. That’s what people do.”

“Not me.”

“Oh.”

“Stevie,” her mother’s voice cut into the conversation. “We’re leaving.” Stevie gave Violet a grin and a jaunty wave, and trailed after her mother, leaving Violet looking floored.

“So,” her mother said after a minute or two. “You don’t want to get married.” Stevie shook her head and her mother laughed. “I said the same thing when I was your age. You’ll change your mind when you get older.” Stevie doubted this very much but decided to keep that to herself.

~~

“Violet Carrick wants to marry you,” Stevie announced as they lay amongst the dunes watching white clouds scud across a bright blue sky.

Xabi frowned. “Why?”

“Dunno. She says that’s what people do.”

“What, marry me?”

“Marry people in general, you twit. It’s just her that wants to marry you.”

“Oh.”

“D’you want to marry her?”

Xabi’s mouth twisted. “Ugh, no.” Stevie laughed.

“Why not?” she pressed. “She’s very pretty.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to marry someone just because they’re pretty,” Xabi said.

“Your father’d probably like it if you married her.”

Xabi pulled a face again. “Wait. You don’t… you don’t want to marry me, do you?” he said, looking worried.

“Urgh, no,” she said, shoving his shoulder. 

“Thank goodness.”

“Why, what’s wrong with marrying me?”

“Well, what’s wrong with marrying me?”

“I don’t want to marry anyone!”

“Neither do I!” Distantly, they heard the church clock strike four. They both sprang up. “Oh no.”

“I’ll be late for tea. Again. Mam’s going to kill me.”

“Race you,” Xabi said, and set off across the sand.

“Cheat!” Stevie cried as she ran after him.

~~

It was almost exactly a year later when Stevie saw Xabi tear past her kitchen window, head down, one hand covering his face. She ran to find her shoes. “Where are you going?” her mother asked.

“Xabi. Beach,” she said, struggling with the buckle.

“Oh, not this again,” her mother said.

“Please Mam, I’ve done all my chores,” she pleaded. Her mother had to let her go. Something was wrong. There was a long moment where Stevie looked despairingly at her mother and her mother stared back at her before she sighed, shook her head and waved her hand in the direction of the door. “Thanks, Mam,” she said, kissing her mother on the cheek and running out of the door. She ignored her mother’s plea to walk like a civilised person instead of tearing about all the time.

She found him where she knew she would, perched on the rocks. In a few hours they would be surrounded, even covered, by water, but now, with the tide out, they stood innocuously right in the middle of the beach. She scrambled up to where Xabi was curled up on his side, his shoulders shaking. She didn’t say anything, just sat down beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. After a couple of minutes he turned and sat up, only to bury his face in her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him and held him as he cried. This was unusual. Stevie was the one who shouted and cried; when Xabi was upset he went very quiet and would sit on the rocks and watch the waves until they calmed him down. Xabi didn’t cry, not like this. Not since they were very little and Xabi was forever falling over and skinning his knees. Whatever had happened, it must be very, very bad. 

It was another three hours before she found out. Xabi calmed down eventually but still couldn’t speak. Every time he tried, something like a sob escaped his throat and his face crumpled again. Stevie led him down from the rocks as the tide turned and took him back to her house, the numb calm that had descended on him as different as could be from his usual quiet. “Mam, can Xabi stay?” Her mother looked at them and nodded sadly.

“Of course. You alright, Xabi love?” He jerked his head in a motion that might be a nod, gazing down at his feet. “Maybe you should take him upstairs, Stevie. I’ll let his mother know he’s here.”

Stevie got Xabi settled on her bed and headed back downstairs in search of tea. “Mam, do you know what’s happened?”

Her mother gave her a sharp look. “Hasn’t he said?”

Stevie shook her head. “I don’t think he can say anything. I think he’s in shock.”

“As well he might be, poor lad. Stevie,” her mother stuttered and stopped, as if she didn’t know what to say. “Xabi’s father has — he’s passed away.”

Stevie gasped. She knew it was bad but she had never imagined this. “What? How?” Parents didn’t just die like that. They couldn’t. He was Xabi’s dad. What was he going to do without his dad?

Her mother hesitated again. “I— I’m not sure,” she said, busying herself with the teapot, and Stevie knew she was lying. “You go back up to him and I’ll bring you both your tea. Bread and jam, all right?” 

Stevie nodded, too stunned to push or argue. She drifted back up the stairs and into her bedroom where Xabi was lying in the exact same position she had left him. She lay down beside him and wrapped her arms around him again. “I’m sorry, Xabi,” she whispered into his hair. “I’m so sorry.” His shoulders shook, once, and she heard him draw in a shaky breath, but other than that he remained still and silent. Her mother found them like that several minutes later. 

“You should both eat something,” she said, putting the tray down beside the bed. “If you can.” She ran her hand through Stevie’s hair and pressed it to Xabi’s shoulder, then she was gone.

“Come on, Xabi,” she said softly. “Sit up. Mam’s right, you have to eat.” Xabi sat up and chewed mechanically on a piece of bread. Stevie did the same; it tasted like sugared chalk and was hard to swallow. Eventually they both gave up and Stevie poured them both a cup of tea, which Stevie sipped half-heartedly and Xabi stared at.

Stevie was halfway through her tea when Xabi’s cup went clattering to the floor and he made that same choked-off sobbing noise he had made at the beach. “Stevie,” he gasped. “What do I do? How—” He hid his face in his hands. Stevie’s arms were back around him in an instant and she held him once more through the horrifying tears.

Eventually he calmed down and then he fell asleep, and Stevie untangled herself from him. She gathered up the two broken cups and the mostly uneaten bread and carried the tray back downstairs, her steps heavy. It was exhausting, being sad for Xabi. At the foot of the stairs she paused, hearing voices; her father was home. 

“… really true then?” her mother asked “He really killed himself?” Stevie almost dropped the tray. 

“Yes. Lost everything apparently, didn’t tell the wife. Been trying to keep up appearances but, well, couldn’t do it anymore. It was the boy who found him, so they say.”

“Oh, poor Xabi. No wonder he was in such a state.”

“He would be. Billy Trott said it was a right mess, blood everywhere, brains and all…”

“Oh, Brian, stop, stop.”

“Sorry, pet.”

Stevie couldn’t take it any more and walked through to the kitchen, and under any other circumstances would have laughed at the shocked faces her parents turned to her. “Mr Alonso killed himself?” she demanded, banging the tray down on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me when I asked?” She suspected she already knew the answer. Grow-ups never told you anything. But her mother surprised her.

“I wasn’t sure, it was only a rumour then. I didn’t want to tell you if it wasn’t true.”

“Why did he kill himself?” she said. ‘He lost everything’ didn’t make sense. What did that even mean? How could he have lost everything when he still had Xabi and Mrs Alonso?

“It’s complicated. You know people don’t have as much money as they used to?” Stevie nodded. She didn’t understand how so many people could suddenly lose money or where it went — it had to have _gone_ somewhere, it couldn’t just vanish — but apparently that had happened and had something to do with a crash and it was very bad. “Well, Mr Alonso is one of those people and, well, that’s a very difficult thing to deal with and some people don’t cope with it very well and they… kill themselves.” She trailed off a little towards the end.

“But lots of people don’t have any money. We’ve never had any money, we don’t go around killing ourselves!”

“The girl’s got a point,” her father said.

“Brian, you know it’s not that straightforward,” her mother admonished. “The poor man must have been desperate to do what he did.”

“And how desperate are his wife and son going to be without a husband and father to take care of them?”

“I know, Brian, but—” 

“But nothing. And letting the boy find him like that. If you’re going to take the coward’s way out, at least don’t do it in the house.”

“Brian that’s enough,” her mother said harshly. “The man was clearly very troubled, and in any event we do not speak ill of the dead in this house.”

Her father nodded sheepishly. “You’re right, pet, you’re right. Sorry.”

But Stevie thought about how hollow Xabi had looked all afternoon, about how his entire body shook with his grief, and couldn’t help agreeing with her father.

~~

Twelve years old, almost thirteen, and they’re sitting in the old oak tree on the far side of the village, Xabi laughing in a way Stevie hasn’t seen for over a year. At least, Xabi is sitting in the tree; Stevie is in a heap on the ground.

“It isn’t funny, Xabi!”

“Yes it is,” he countered, the words barely audible through his howling laughter.

“I hate you,” she pouted.

“No you don’t.”

“Help me back up. And stop laughing.” Xabi tried and failed to contain himself as he helped her clamber back up. Every few seconds another splutter would escape from between his pressed lips. “Oh, shut up,” she said, shoving at his shoulder as she settled back down next to him. “Or you’ll be falling out of the tree.” Her heart wasn’t really in it and they both knew it. She would fall out of a hundred trees if it kept that look off Xabi’s face, the one he tried to hide but never quite managed because his sadness was too big to be contained by a smile and a quick joke. He stayed over sometimes, and Stevie would be woken during the night by the little noises he made in his sleep. Not crying; worse than crying. She had once seen a dog get kicked by a horse, and the dog hadn’t moved, had just lain there, whimpering quietly in that way that animals do, until the vet came and shot it. That was the only thing she could think of as she held him and stroked his hair. She didn’t get a lot of sleep on those nights.

“My mother’s getting married,” Xabi said.

“Oh. To Mr Turlington?” Xabi’s mother had been good friends with Mr Turlington ever since he arrived in the village about six months previously. He had been very kind to them. At least, that’s what she always said when anyone asked her about it in the village shop.

“Yes. So we can keep the house. That’s important, apparently. Where we live.” He picked at a piece of bark. “I don’t care where we live.”

“Does he have money then?” Everyone in the village knew Mr Turlington had money. It was always obvious who had money. Almost always. But Stevie was learning that there was money, and then there was money.

“Enough to get the house back from the bank. Enough to be ‘comfortable’. I’m glad someone’s comfortable,” he muttered.

“So you won’t be The Man Of The House anymore.”

“No. Mother says I never should have been. That I’m too young and it’s unfair.”

Stevie couldn’t argue with that. “What’s he like? Is your mother happy?”

Xabi shrugged. “He’s nice enough, I suppose.” They sat in silence, the light mood gone as quickly as it had come, and that look was back on Xabi’s face. “I’ll never understand. My father, I mean. I’ll never understand.”

~~

“Mam, can Xabi stay over?” Stevie asked as they finished their tea. Crumpets and honey and just a little sugar in the tea, as hot as they could stand it, as the wind howled outside. Her mother put her cup down and looked hesitant.

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

“What? Why not? It’s not a school night.”

Her mother sighed and looked at them both. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you two about this for some time. I should have known you would force the issue if I left it too long.” Stevie frowned. She had absolutely know idea what her mother was talking about. “You’re fourteen years old, Stevie. Sharing a bed and running around together holding hands like children was fine when you were, well, children. But it’s inappropriate now.”

“How is it inappropriate?” Her mother looked uncomfortable; Xabi shifted in his chair beside her.

“You know how,” her mother snapped. “Everyone sees you two together and it’s not sweet anymore, it’s… people are starting to talk. It won’t be long now before you’re old enough to be courting and it’s inappropriate for you to be behaving like this with a boy.”

“But Xabi’s not a boy. He’s Xabi,” Stevie said, bewildered. Surely this was obvious. “I don’t even care about boys.”

“Stevie, that’s enough. Xabi, I’m sorry, but I think it’s best you don’t stay for supper today. I think you should go. The wind’s dying down a little,” she added with a nod at the window.

“Mam!” Stevie wailed, while Xabi got up and gave her a ‘what can you do?’ shrug. “That’s not fair.”

“Stevie, it’s fine,” Xabi said buttoning up his coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“At least one of you can be sensible about this,” her mother said. “Goodnight, Xabi.”

“This is so unfair,” Stevie huffed as Xabi disappeared through the back door with a wave. She turned on her heel and stomped up the stairs, slamming her door as hard as she could.

~~

“So, I’m not a boy,” Xabi said, and without even opening her eyes she knew he was smirking.

“You know what I meant.” They were lying in a hollow where the dunes met the beach, sheltered from the ever-present wind and enjoying the first burst of summer. She tilted her head to catch a little more of the warmth of the sun on her skin and imagined she could feel it, the heat and the light, traveling through skin and muscle, right down to her very bones. The world was far away and it was just her and Xabi and the sunshine. Her mother would no doubt consider this all to be very inappropriate.

“Stevie? What did you mean when you said you don’t care about boys?”

“I just don’t care about them,” she said with a shrug. “Boys are stupid. I mean, not you,” she added, opening one eye.

“Ah, but I’m not a boy, am I?” he said, with a strange look on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” And before she could react he leaned over and pressed his lips gently to hers.

“What was that?” she said when he pulled away.

“A kiss.”

“I know that. Why did you do it?”

“Did you feel anything?”

“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “Your lips.”

“No, I mean, it’s supposed to make you feel something. Tingly, like you want to do it more.”

“Well, it didn’t. Did it make you feel like that?”

“No.”

“Did you expect it to?”

“Not really.” Xabi sighed and looked away. “I just wanted to check.”

“Well don’t do it again.”

“Fine.”

~~

They were from London, Philip Marsh had told Xabi that morning, and had spent a week in Alnwick and a few days in Bamburgh and were now renting the old farmhouse up near Miller’s Woods for a week, because that’s something people did now, apparently. Stevie wasn’t sure why people who lived in London and could actually afford holidays wanted to traipse all the way up here instead of going to the seaside like normal people would do.

“This _is_ the seaside, Stevie,” Xabi said. “Look, the sea.”

“This isn’t the proper seaside, Xabi, this is just where the sea meets the land and there’s a beach. We don’t have a pier or anything.” Xabi just shook his head. 

The really important information, according to Philip Marsh, was that the daughter of the family was easily the prettiest girl anyone had ever seen. Violet Carrick wasn’t too happy about it. Xabi and Stevie were waiting on the beach to see if it was true; they were bound to come down there eventually, otherwise what was the point? “Is that them?” Stevie whispered, nudging Xabi as five people appeared from between the dunes and looked around.

“Must be,” Xabi whispered back. “I’ve never seen them before.”

After a while they grew bored of watching the family from a distance. They weren’t really doing anything and they couldn’t see well enough to be able to tell if the girl was as pretty as reported. They could see that she kept glancing over at them, though, and after the third or fourth time, Stevie waved. The girl said something to her parents, who looked over at them and then waved her away. She got up, dusted herself down and walked over to them.

“Hello,” Stevie said. “I’m Stephanie, but everybody calls me Stevie. This is Xabi.”

The girl smiled a little shyly. “I’m Rebecca.”

She really was very pretty.

~~

It was probably the most exciting week of Stevie’s life, and almost certainly the least amount of time she had ever spent with Xabi. She missed him, but she knew he would be there when Rebecca left.

They paddled in the sea and walked in the woods and sat for hours talking in the dunes, and never once did her mother tell her it was inappropriate. When Rebecca said goodbye she smiled sweetly, took Stevie’s face in her hands, leaned in and kissed her. Oh, Stevie thought. This is what Xabi meant, and kissed her back.

~~

“I had a dream about you,” Xabi said. They were sitting in his back garden, under the willow tree. His mother and Mr Turlington had gone away and the housekeeper — they had a housekeeper now — was supposed to be watching Xabi, but she let him do what he liked. And so even though the leaves were turning and the wind had grown cold, they sat under the willow tree as if it were midsummer, wrapping coats and blankets around themselves to keep out the chill. 

“What was the dream?”

“We were on a boat, a ship, one of those old tall ships with all the sails. And we were talking.”

“Is that it? Just talking?”

“Yes. But in the dream it wasn’t just talking, not like normal talking.” He screwed his face up, trying to find the words. “It was like, there was more being said, you know?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Dreams are weird.”

~~

Stevie stood beside her mother at the window, watching the rain pouring down the window. She fancied she could hear the waves pounding in the distance, but in reality nothing could be heard over the wind and the rain. It was not the first time the fishing boats had failed to reach shore before the storm did, nor was it the first time Stevie had stood at the window and wondered if her father would come home. But it would be the last.

~~

Stevie gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white, the sounds of her father’s wake muffled by the heavy kitchen door. She would not cry, she would not. She was fifteen years old, she was a young woman now, not a child, and she had to stay strong for her mother, who was looking paler and more drawn by the day, and trying so hard not to show it. Stevie felt wrung out, used up, and she could only imagine how much more tired her mother must be. She wondered if this was how Xabi felt, all day, every day, for the last four years. She did not know how she would bear another four minutes of this, let alone four years. And then all the years after that.

She would have jumped at the touch on her arm if she’d had the energy; she hadn’t even heard the door open. “It gets better after this,” Xabi said. “After you’ve said goodbye.”

“Really?” she said, searching his eyes for the truth, as if he would ever give her anything else.

“Eventually,” he said sadly. She nodded.

“Can it be now, please?” she said, finally giving way to tears. Xabi just pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her as she cried into his chest. He was so much taller than her now and she hadn’t even noticed. He held her until her sobs had calmed down enough for her to speak. “Thank you for being here.”

“Of course. Where else would I be?”

~~

I’m lucky to have this job, Stevie told herself for perhaps the hundredth time that day. I am lucky to have this job and I owe a great debt to Mr Turlington for recommending me. She glanced at the clock as the youngest child threw his pencil across the room and burst into tears. Six more hours to go. She wondered if they hung sixteen year olds for murder, or if she would be granted clemency because of her age.

~~

“Those children are awful,” she said, collapsing onto the sand beside Xabi. The sky was turning pink in the west and the fading sun cast a comforting orange glow over everything. Stevie glared at the horizon; she did not want to be comforted. She kicked at a pebble.

“You are very lucky to have that job. My step-father went to great trouble to recommend you,” Xabi intoned. Stevie kicked sand at him. Xabi grinned.

“At least now I know where all the money went,” Stevie mused. Xabi looked puzzled. “Well, everybody lost their money, but where did they lose it to? Where did it go? And now I know. I’m pretty sure it’s all in that house. They have a television, Xabi. A television. We don’t even have a radio.”

Xabi laughed. “They lost money too, you know. I heard my parents talking about it. That’s why they had to hire you instead of a proper governess.”

“That’s them _after_ they lost money?” Stevie said, prodding him in the ribs for the proper governess comment. Xabi giggled and squirmed. “No wonder we never had any.” Stevie stared out to sea. “Maybe if they’d shared it around a bit, my father wouldn’t have had to go out in all weathers catching fish.”

“Stevie,” Xabi said softly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Maybe,” she said, louder, the anger that was never far away these days rising from the pit of her stomach, “Maybe if people like that didn’t swan around in their expensive motor cars with their expensive furs and their expensive pearls than your father wouldn’t have killed himself trying to be like them.” Stevie regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Beside her, Xabi had gone very still, his hand gripping her shoulder. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.” Xabi’s hand loosened and fell away.

“My father didn’t kill himself because the Percy’s have a lot of money, Stevie.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“And even if they shared all their money around, someone would still have to catch the fish.”

“I know.” Stevie jabbed at the sand with her finger. “Still not fair though.”

“I know.” Xabi wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into his side. She laid her head against his shoulder and they watched the sky blaze scarlet and then fade. “Do they really have a television?”

“Mhmm. And three motor cars.”

“God Almighty.”

~~

“I had another dream about us.”

“Oh?”

“We were on that ship again, and you were a boy. Well, a man. A doctor.”

Stevie put down the skirt she was mending and looked at Xabi. He had an odd look on his face that she had only seen once before. She smiled. “Xabi, do you want to kiss me again because I was a boy?” she teased.

“No,” he said quietly, fiddling with his cuff. “I just, it’s strange. I keep having these dreams and—”

“And what?” she prompted.

“They’re confusing. And they seem so real. I wake up and can’t remember how I really feel.”

“Why do you think I was a boy in your dream?”

He shrugged. “I don’t wish you were a boy or anything like that. It’s not about boys. I’m not like you, I don’t think.” He sighed and frowned, then his face cleared. Stevie could see the precise moment he dismissed the problem from his mind, flicked it away like a piece of lint; he was getting good at that. He grinned at her slyly. “Maybe it’s because you’re practically a boy now, aren’t you? It’s not like you behave like a proper girl.”

Stevie decided to go along with the change of subject, and did so by prodding him in the hand with her needle.

~~

It never got easier, Stevie realised, watching Xabi’s blank face as he carried his mother’s coffin into the church. They had buried his step-father the day before and Xabi had the look of a man clinging on to the edge. His father’s death had in no way prepared him for the death of his mother, or of the step-father he had come to respect and appreciate. Instead, the weight of all of them bore down on him, as though he were carrying three coffins on his shoulder. Eighteen years old and he was alone in the world, but for Stevie. He sat down beside her and she reached over and took his hand. He gripped hers in return, so hard it hurt. The vicar began to speak, but Stevie wasn’t really listening. She had heard it all before, too many times before.

What would Xabi do now, all alone in that big old house? He was supposed to be going to university, accepted at Cambridge and everything, much to Stevie’s great pride, which she had shown by shoving him into the duck pond. Would he still be able to go? Mr Turlington was a sensible man who would surely have provided for his step-son’s future. Xabi would probably have to sell the house though. Perhaps that was for the best anyway.

~~

She watched Xabi from the doorway of his study, which had been his step-father’s study, and his father’s study before that. She had never actually seen the door open before. It looked exactly how she had imagined: lots of polished mahogany and dark green leather, with a masculine, patrician air. It didn’t suit Xabi at all, though it gave her the strangest feeling of deja vu. She could see the two of them whiling away the hours in the pair of wingback chairs in the corner, talking over brandy. She shook her head at herself. The only brandy she had ever drunk had been for medicinal purposes and it certainly hadn’t been something you wanted to savour over a pleasant evening. Worrying about Xabi was clearly driving her out of her senses.

He was seated at the desk, his head in his hands, staring blankly at the papers in front of him; he hadn’t moved at all in the five minutes she had been standing there. She almost jumped when he sighed. “Are you going to hover in the doorway all day?” he said. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him from behind. 

“Mrs McIllroy let me in,” she said, resting her temple against his. He gripped her hands and nodded.

“Sorry I haven’t been to see you. I just got back this morning.”

“I know. It’s fine.” She reached out and tapped the papers on his desk. “Can I see?” He shrugged and nodded again. She perched herself on the edge of the desk and pulled the papers towards her. She frowned as she read over them. She may not be reading Law at Cambridge like some people in the room but she knew a household budget when she saw one, and this one did not look good.

“Well? What do you think?”

She looked at him. He already knew what she thought. She had already known what she thought before she picked up the papers. He was going to make her say it, and he wasn’t going to like it, and she was going to say it anyway. “You need to sell the house, Xabi.” He shook his head and looked away and she slammed the papers down on the desk. “You can’t pay your tuition and keep up with the running costs of this place. You just can’t. It’s one or the other.”

“Maybe I’ll leave university,” he muttered, still not looking at her.

“Xabi,” she gasped. “You can’t.”

“Well, I’m not selling this house,” he snapped. Stevie clenched her fists. What was this family’s obsession with this damn house? There was nothing special about it, it was just the biggest house in the village. It wasn’t even a mansion, it had no important history, it wasn’t an architectural wonder, it hadn’t been in the family for generations. It was just a house, slightly nicer than the other houses around it. Not worth dying for, not worth marrying for, not worth sacrificing your future for. 

“And what will you do instead?” she said, just about clinging on to her temper. “Go out on the fishing boats like me Da? Get a job in a factory, if you can even find a factory with any jobs?”

“I can teach. They need someone at the prep school up the road.”

Stevie gaped at him. “You’ve actually thought about this. This isn’t some harebrained scheme you just came up with, you’ve planned this.”

Xabi nodded. “I spoke to Mr Appleby this morning.”

“You’re better than this.”

“No, I’m not, Stevie. That’s the point.” He got up and started pacing up and down the room. “I don’t belong there.”

“At Cambridge?”

“Yes, at Cambridge.” She noticed that the carpet where Xabi was pacing was already more worn than the rest of it. She wondered if his father used to pace up and down like this when he was wondering how to pay the bills. She felt sick. “They all know each other, you know. They all went to the same schools and their parents go to the same balls and the same hunts and they all have done for generations. And I’m just the weird boy from up north with the funny accent.”

“You knew that before you left, pet,” Stevie said with a smile.

“I know,” he sighed, all the anger suddenly gone. He flopped back down into his chair. “It’s different living it though. They call me ‘provincial’.”

“You are provincial,” Stevie laughed. “Nothing wrong with that. Look, it’s only four years. You can handle four years. Then you can come back here, if you want, and set up your provincial little practice in a provincial little town and be happy. And who cares what they think then? Or you can go to London and get a fancy job in a big fancy firm. Whatever you want. The point is, you’ll have options. What options will you have if you stay here?”

“You stay here.”

“That’s ‘cause I have no options.” He didn’t argue with her. 

“I still don’t want to sell the house.”

Stevie sighed. “Why? Please explain to me, why. I don’t understand. You’re not even here most of the time, you’re paying for it to sit here empty.”

“This is the house I was born in, that I grew up in. I don’t want to leave it.”

“No, that isn’t it,” Stevie said with a shake of her head. “Try again.”

He glared at her half-heartedly and ran a hand through his hair. “My father tried so hard to keep this house that it killed him. It actually killed him. My mother married my step-father so we could keep it. That worked out well, really, he was a good man and they did love each other in the end. But still. If I sell the house, it’s like I’m saying they were wrong, and I can’t do that.” 

They were wrong, Stevie screamed inside her head. They were so, so wrong, Xabi. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. “You’re mother married your step-father because she wanted security for you, not because she wanted this bloody house so much.” Stevie wasn’t actually convinced about this point but she certainly wasn’t going to tell Xabi that. She knelt beside his chair and took his hand in hers. “And she was right. They left you enough money to pay for your education, and a valuable house that you can sell, and use the money to get something smaller and provide you with a nest egg. That’s how you repay them, Xabi. Not by throwing it all away and running yourself into the ground to maintain something that, in the end, is just a nicely arranged pile of bricks.” Xabi buried his face in his hands. Stevie rested her hand on his knee and waited for him to sort through all the fractured pieces of his life and try to find a way to fit them together. After a few minutes he lifted his head. His eyes were damp but he was smiling a little.

“How did you get to be so sensible?”

“I have to be. You’re my best friend.” Xabi made a sound that might have been a laugh. “That’s how we work.” She tapped him on the forehead. “You’re the brains and I’m the common sense.” Xabi did laugh at that. Weakly, but it was still a laugh.

“Common sense? Aren’t you the girl who almost drowned trying to swim to France?”

“Xabi! I was eight years old, I didn’t know how far away France was.”

“Do you know now how far away France is?” 

“Shut up.” Xabi laughed again.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Stevie said, blushing a little. They didn’t often say things like that out loud to each other. It was just known.

“I really do hate all those bloody toffs.”

“You can’t be the only non-toff there. You need to find the others who are like you and befriend them. It’s only been a few months. Give it time.”

“They won’t be the same as you.”

“Well, obviously. You’ll never have a friend like me.”

“Thank God for that.” She prodded him in the ribs. “If I go to London after university, would you come with me?”

“To do what? Clean your house? Be governess to your children?” A terrible thought struck her, and a memory of childhood conversations. “Oh God. You’re not asking me to marry you, are you?”

“What? Of course not, don’t be stupid. I could train you up as my Clerk.”

“Oh.” Stevie sighed with relief. “Are you serious? Is that what you want?”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t decided yet. It’s probably what’s expected of me, my professors would be disappointed if I didn’t. But I do like the idea of coming back here and perhaps working at my step-father’s practice, or setting up my own. And I think you’d be a good Clerk.” 

“I’ll think about it.”

“Well, don’t think about it too hard. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” And he laughed as she swatted him round the head with the household budget.

~~

Stevie hung her head as the sound of the radio announcer died away. War with Germany. God. She couldn’t look at Xabi, couldn’t bear to see the look she knew she would see on his face. She forced herself not to flinch away from his hand on her arm. “I have to sign up,” he said.

“No you don’t,” Stevie said, knowing she sounded childish. “You don’t have to do anything. National Service doesn’t begin until you’re twenty.” And the war might be over by then, she didn’t add.

“That’s only a year away, Stevie. Besides, you don’t think that will change now that we’re at war?”

“We’re not even supposed to be at war. ‘Peace for our time’, he said. Pillock.”

“Well, I’m sure if you just pop over to Germany and explain that Chamberlain has made a terrible mistake then the whole thing will be called off. Maybe you could swim there,” Xabi snapped. Stevie glared at him. “At least you’re looking at me now,” he said more softly. “Stevie, come on. I don’t like it either. But it’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t care,” Stevie said, swallowing hard. This was it. This was how it was going to happen. The old fear, the old certainty, long pushed down, rose up in her again. This was how she would lose Xabi.

~~

_Dear Stevie,_

_Sorry I haven’t written for a while. We’ve been on the move and the post isn’t exactly reliable._

_The desert is awful, truly awful. I don’t have the words to describe how awful it is. It’s hotter than Hell here, and smells like it too, though that’s mostly Jonesey’s feet. And the sand, the fucking sand gets everywhere. Your eyes, your clothes, your tea. I’ve eaten more sand than I have food since we got here. And did I mention the heat? I’d chew off my own foot for the chance to cool down in the North Sea (giant freezing death-trap that it is) but that’s covered in sand too._

_God, I’m sorry. I’m making you worry again, aren’t I? Sorry. I shouldn’t complain. I’m alive to drink my sandy tea, and that’s more than a lot can say.  
I think I understand now why my father killed himself. Not that I want to die, I am very much trying  NOT to die. But I understand. Did you know it was his old army pistol he used to kill himself with? (From the last war. You know, the war that was supposed to be the last one ever. Ha! Politicians are idiots and liars, why do we ever listen to them?) I don’t know if I ever told you that, about the pistol. Maybe it was never about the money. Or the money was the last straw._

_Damn, I’m definitely worrying you. Sorry. I’m fine, please don’t worry about me._

_How’s your Mam? How are Mrs McIllroy and the evacuees? Most importantly, how are you? We hear the German bombing continues in some places. Are you all right? Are you working twenty hours a day and worrying about everyone but yourself and taking the weight of the entire village on your shoulders? Probably. Please stop. Just for an hour. One hour. Have some cocoa and read a book._

_It’s funny. I’m sitting here on the sand with the sun and the wind on my face, and if I close my eyes and concentrate really hard, I can almost imagine that the sun is less intense and the wind is stronger and cooler, and that the sand is almost cold to my touch, and that when I open my eyes you’ll be sitting beside me, rolling your eyes at something I’ve said. I could reach out and touch you. If I reached out now the only thing I’d touch would be Jonesey, and I definitely don’t want to do that.  
Write soon. I miss vaguely intelligent conversation._

_Yours,_

_Xabi._

_P.S. I’ve told the lads that you’re my girl, I hope you don’t mind. I don’t think they’d understand about you otherwise. (Apparently I talk about you a lot and they assumed you were a man at first because of your ridiculous name and I had to have a very uncomfortable conversation with my CO.)_

_P.P.S. Philip says ‘hello’ and wants to know when the wedding will be ‘what with us being sweethearts and everything’ and apparently he thinks he’s funny and has a pressing need to be shoved in front of a German tank the next time we see one. He’s got half the Company asking when I’m going to make an honest woman out of you. Sorry._

 

_Dear Xabi,_

_Do please try not to be more stupid than you have to be. Of course I’m going to worry about you, you’re in a war you idiot. You waxing lyrical about your father’s pistol is the least of my concerns to be honest. I am glad you understand your father a little better now, though I have to say I wish you didn’t, and I don’t think I ever will. ‘I’m fine please don’t worry about me’, what a ridiculous thing to say._

_Speaking of ridiculous, you are in no position to comment on other people’s names, Xabier._

_You’ve spent most of your life on the beach, are you really complaining about sand? Really? Sorry about the sand in your tea. When you come home I’ll make you the sand-free-est (it’s a word, hush) tea anyone has ever drunk._

_Mam is much the same as she was the last time you saw her. She’s no better but no worse. I think the guilt of feeling like she is a burden (she is absolutely not a burden) is wearing on her spirits more than the war is. I will tell her you were asking after her. Mrs McIllroy is also the same as she was the last time you saw her; that woman has been the same since the day she was born and will continue on in the same manner until the day she dies, should that day ever arrive. The Germans could drop a bomb directly on her head and she would just tut in disapproval and start sweeping up the mess. The evacuees are fine, or as fine as they can be under the circumstances. They miss home, their parents, but they’re enjoying the adventure. Some of them had never seen a sheep before. I’ve been helping their teacher as much as I can. She’s very nice and very capable but they’re a lot to handle by yourself. And I enjoy her company. We’ve turned your garden into a giant vegetable patch. Sorry._

_We don’t see anything of the bombing here; they’re targeting the docks and shipyards. We hear them sometimes, but that’s about all. I hear it’s bad in Hull, and of course it was very bad in London and Coventry last year._

_I am not working twenty hours a day and I am not taking on too much, I am taking on just as much as I can and need to. Between Mam and the factory and helping out around the village it is hard, but no harder than putting up with smelly feet and sand in your tea. I read every night, for your information, and drink cocoa as often as rations allow, so there. I don’t often go down to the beach anymore. You’re not there and with all the concrete bunkers, it’s just not the same._

_Tell Philip Marsh ‘hello’ in return and tell him to write to his mother, she’s worried. Feel free to push him in front of a German tank, but not until after he’s written the letter._

_I couldn’t miss you more if you actually were my sweetheart. Please come home safely._

_Always,_

_Stevie_

_Oh God, Xabi. My Mam died. I finished your letter and went to check on her and she was just sitting there, not moving. The doctor’s been and gone and Kate’s still here and she’s been wonderful, actually, but she’s not you. I always wish you were here but today, God, I wish, I wish, I wish you were here._

~~

Stevie stared at the map, trying to work out how long it would take Xabi to travel home from Liverpool. It was a pointless exercise as she didn’t even know what time his ship had docked, if it had even docked yet, but she was doing it nonetheless. She needed something to occupy her mind, and it was this or helping little Billy Wilson with his times tables and, much as she loved the child, he was more than she could cope with today. 

She jumped at a sudden crash from the other side of the hall, and she hurried out to what everyone still called Xabi’s study, despite the fact that most of the house’s current occupants had never met Xabi, he hadn’t set foot in the place for three years, and Stevie wasn’t sure if the house was technically even his anymore. The cause of the crash was lying on the floor, surrounded by bits of broken glass and china. “Oh God, Kate, are you alright?” Stevie exclaimed, rushing forward to help the teacher up.

Kate laughed a little, brushing down her dress with unsteady hands; a small shower of glass fragments fell out of the folds. “Yes, I think so. Just got the breath knocked out of me. My own fault. I was trying to reach a book and I stood on a chair instead of fetching a ladder like a sensible person.” she said shakily. “I’m not hurt, Stevie” she continued more forcefully, with another laugh, as Stevie began hurriedly checking her for injuries. “I might have a couple of bruises. But nothing to worry about.” 

“Are you sure?” Stevie asked, slowly becoming aware of the fact that her hands were skimming over Kate’s arms and shoulders in a way that was not entirely appropriate. She cleared her throat and stepped back, hoping she did not look as flushed as she felt.

“Yes,” Kate said, with a smile that made Stevie suspect she had, in fact, noticed Stevie getting flustered. Drat. “I—” she broke off as something behind Stevie caught her eye. “God, Stevie, I’m so sorry. Look at the mess.” Stevie turned and surveyed the damage. What had once been Xabi’s mother’s favourite china and his father’s crystal whiskey glasses now littered the floor; the little walnut table on which they had stood was overturned, one of its delicate, spindly legs clearly broken; a chair lay on its side with what appeared to be a large crack in the frame of the seat. Only the silver tray which had held the glasses appeared undamaged. She turned back to Kate.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Hitting the table with enough force to break it must have hurt, not to mention all the broken glass.

“Yes. I think so,” Kate said, looking down at herself. “Miraculous escape,” she laughed. The smile died from her face as she looked at the mess again. “I’m so sorry, look at all your… Xabi’s things.” She crouched down and picked up one of the bigger pieces of porcelain, running her finger over its delicate curve. “I’ll pay for all this, I’m so sorry.” Stevie crouched down beside her, shaking her head. There was no way Kate could afford to pay for this. 

“Don’t worry about it. The chair can be repaired, and the table too, probably. And Xabi doesn’t care about ‘things’ that much. He never used the glasses and china. They just used to sit here gathering dust, or at least they would if Mrs McIlroy ever allowed dust to gather. They belonged to his parents.” Kate looked horrified. “No, no,” Stevie said hurriedly. “They don’t have any sentimental value or anything like that. His parents kept them in here and he just never moved them. That’s all.” Stevie wasn’t entirely sure this was true, if she was being completely honest. Xabi had been known to develop strange feelings about his parents’ material possessions after all. The fact that he had never expressed or shown any emotional attachment to the contents of the little table by the bookcase didn’t mean he would be happy about their sudden disappearance. But Kate looked upset, and Stevie had found that there were few things in the world she hated more than Kate being upset.

“Really?” Kate said, her voice a whisper, and Stevie realised that the only reason she had heard it was because they were so close, so close, and Stevie could make out the very faint freckles that dotted her cheeks, faded now from the summer. Two years of unspoken something hung between them for a moment, two, three, and Stevie tipped her head to the side. A frown flashed across Kate’s face.

“Bloody hell, have the Germans been through here or something?” The voice from the doorway brought Stevie to her feet so quickly she went lightheaded, and she wobbled slightly as she spun to face the door. 

He looked neat and put-together in a way he never had as a civilian, his uniform making him seem like a stranger. His face was older and more lined and more brown, his eyes more tired. He seemed somehow taller than she remembered. But he was still, very definitely, Xabi. She crossed the room and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. Xabi laughed lightly and returned the hug. “I’m sorry about your Mam,” he whispered and Stevie nodded against his shirt and tried to bite back the tears. Xabi’s arms tightened around her and for a moment his encircling warmth was all that existed in the world. Then the sound of the children returning from their walk with Mrs McIlroy came clattering down the hall, and Stevie remembered where they were, and that they weren’t alone. She pulled away and wiped at her eyes before turning to Kate, one arm still around Xabi.

“Sorry. Sorry,” she said. “Xabi, this is Kate. I mean, um, Miss Smith. Katherine Smith.” She elbowed Xabi gently in the ribs when he sniggered. “Kate, this is Xabi Alonso.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Katherine Smith,” Xabi smiled, stretching out his hand.

“You too,” Kate said shaking his hand and avoiding his eye. “I’m so sorry about…” she gestured at the floor before taking a deep breath and looking straight at Xabi. “You shouldn’t have had to walk in on this, I apologise.”

Xabi shook his head. “It’s only stuff. We’ll fix what we can and throw away what we can’t. There’s nothing to apologise for.” Stevie shot Kate a ‘told you so’ look. Kate didn’t look convinced but gave a wavering smile anyway.

“I’ll go and find a brush or something to clean it up then,” she said. Stevie had turned back to Xabi, inspecting him for further changes, and barely noticed Kate leaving the room, her head down and her face turned away. She hugged him again, because she could, because he was back. She knew he wasn’t going to stay. The war was far from over and he would have to go out and fight again. But right now he was home, and for the first time in almost three years she knew for sure that he was alive and well. She could touch him, smell him; he had changed his soap but he still smelled the same underneath, still smelled like comfort, like home. She tightened her arms around him and he laughed, his breath stirring her hair, his chest rumbling against her cheek.

“I’m not going to disappear if you let go of me, you know,” he said. But he didn’t let go either.

~~

“I interrupted something earlier, didn’t I?” Xabi said as they polished off their tea in the now-tidied and swept study. Kate had offered to deal with the children while they caught up, and Stevie had happily accepted, resolving to repay her for the favour later.

“Yes, I think so,” Stevie said, remembering with perfect clarity the soft smile on Kate’s face, the warmth of her brown eyes; the soft skin on her arms and the way her dress fit her body, tight over her breasts and waist, flowing over her hips to her knees. She felt her cheeks grow hot.

“Sorry about that,” he said with a smirk as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking about. “What are you going to do about it?”

“About Kate?”

“Yes,” he said, in that tone that suggested he was being infinitely patient with a very stupid person. That hadn’t changed. Stevie rolled her eyes.

“Nothing. It was just a moment of weakness. Nothing is going to happen. It can’t,” she continued as Xabi gazed impassively at her. He had heard all this before in letter form and was just letting her talk until he found the perfect point to contradict her. “She’s here to teach the children, they live here, for crying out loud. It would be inappropriate. We share a room for heaven’s sake.” Xabi smiled, and Stevie knew she had just given him his opening.

“I would have thought that would be a point in favour of pursuing something, not against it,” he said looking smug.

Stevie was ready for him. “But what if it all goes horribly wrong. I would still have to share with her and it would be so awkward.” The argument sounded much weaker out loud than it had in her head. She fiddled with the hem of her skirt and avoided Xabi’s eye.

“So, you’re going to sacrifice the possibility for something wonderful because one day you might — might — have to endure some awkwardness.” Xabi shook his head. “You’re an idiot.” Stevie didn’t contradict him. “Whatever you decide to do, I think you might need to clarify some things for Kate. Regarding, well, the nature of our relationship.” Stevie’s head shot up and Xabi gave her a pointed nod. “I think you might have given her the wrong impression.”

Stevie thought back, remembered the look of something like confusion that flickered across Kate’s face when Stevie had been about to kiss her, the resigned tone of her voice when she had said she would clear up the mess, the expression Stevie glimpsed on her face as she left that Stevie belatedly recognised as disappointment and hurt. She thought of what they must have looked like, arm in arm, unable to stop touching each other, unable to stop smiling. She thought back to a thousand casual mentions of Xabi and saw a thousand tight smiles, heard a thousand strained replies, all different, all the same. She thought about Kate’s apology that afternoon, about what she had actually said: ‘You shouldn’t have had to walk in on this.’ She wasn’t just talking about the mess; she was talking about them, about what they almost did, about what she thought Xabi saw.

“Oh,” Stevie said.

~~

“There’s something you should know. About me and Xabi.”

“Oh?”

“We’re… we’re… blast. It would probably be easier to say what we’re not than try to explain what we are. So. We’re not together. We’re not a couple. He’s my best friend but there isn’t anything romantic between us, there never has been. Never will be. I don’t like him like that.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t really like any boys like that.”

“Do you like me like that?”

“Yes.”

~~

The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall sounded louder than it should; it seemed to echo through the house, forcing itself into Stevie’s ears against her will. She pulled her feet up under her so she was curled up on the sofa like a young girl and laid her head on Kate’s shoulder. Kate tensed and looked over at Xabi in his armchair, but he paid them no mind so she relaxed against Stevie and allowed her to use her as a pillow. Kate continued to read and Stevie continued to watch Xabi, who was studying the newspaper with a frown. The ticking continued to insinuate its way through the room.

“Play something,” she said suddenly, unable to stand it any longer. Xabi and Kate both looked up in surprise. Stevie indicated Kate with a wave of her hand. “Did I tell you she’s the village’s own Vera Lynn?” Kate blushed and batted at her arm.

“I’m hardly that.”

“Still, you should hear her.”

“I’d love to. It’s got to be more edifying than what’s happening in the stock market.” Xabi put down his newspaper and looked expectantly at Kate. Looking a little shy but quite pleased, Kate moved over to the piano and sat down. Stevie watched happily as the expression on Xabi’s face changed from polite interest to surprised pleasure when Kate launched into _A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square._ They both applauded as they song ended and Kate laughed and sketched a bow as best she could while still sitting down. 

“Told you,” Stevie said, only a little smug. 

“You did, you did,” Xabi agreed. “Vera Lynn came and played for us, you know. The resemblance is uncanny. It is,” he added as Kate scoffed. “You’re really good.”

“Thank you,” Kate said, then stood up and tugged Xabi closer to the piano. “Your turn,” she said, pushing him down onto the stool. Xabi and Stevie both winced. “What? He can’t play?”

“No, he can play well enough,” Stevie said. “It’s the singing that’s the problem.”

“I’d still like to hear it,” Kate said.

“Very well,” Xabi said. “On your own head be it.”

The version of _Run Rabbit Run_ that Xabi proceeded to sing was certainly not the version Stevie remembered from childhood. Apparently the army taught you things that just couldn’t be learned at Cambridge. By the time Xabi had finished, Stevie and Kate were howling. “I don’t think I’ll be teaching those lyrics to the children,” Kate said, wiping her eyes. 

It was Stevie’s turn next, despite her protests. Xabi and Kate were insistent. She just about fumbled her way through _Sing As We Go_ to polite applause. “Usually, I play and she sings and between us we make one competent performer,” Xabi laughed.

“You’re enthusiastic, dear,” Kate said patting Stevie on the shoulder. “That’s the most important thing.”

“It’s your turn again, Kate,” Stevie said standing up and making way for her. “Remove the pollution from our ears.” She felt Xabi’s hand grip hers as Kate began _We’ll Meet Again_. She bit her lip and breathed deeply against the old familiar dread, accompanied by a new certainty; Xabi was going to leave and this time he wasn’t going to come back. She closed her eyes and laid her head against Xabi’s shoulder — he still smelled of comfort and home — and listened to Kate’s voice filling the room. 

~~

_Dear Stevie,_

_I’m not allowed to tell you where I am (except that I’m still in England) or where I’m going or what I’m doing in case this letter falls into enemy hands, which seems frankly unlikely. Unless, of course, you are the enemy. Are you secretly a German spy? That’s very disappointing. I don’t think it matters much. By the time you get this it should all have gone off, one way or another._

_So the weather is awful here in Dorset (seriously, there are thousands of us down here. Any German spy incapable of working out what’s going on certainly isn’t capable of intercepting the mail. It doesn’t matter that you know where I am) and so is everything else. There are so many of us crammed into this place that’s meant for sunshine and holidays, and we’re all strolling around eating ice cream in the rain and pretending death isn’t strolling cheerfully alongside us. There’s a sort of grim tension hanging over the town as we all wait for the final word._

_Sorry, what a terrible letter to write. It’s the waiting, it does strange things to you._

_I had another of those dreams about you and me. We were sitting in what seemed to be a parlour — a very nice parlour — and we were laughing and we were so, so happy, Stevie. And instead of waking up feeling confused, I felt a little better, a little easier, than I have since I left. I feel certain that we will see each other again, we will be together again. I feel like I’ve told you that before, I can almost hear myself say it. I know neither of us are exactly on the best of terms with God, but I believe he will look after us, he will bring us together again somehow._

_Give Kate my best, and Mrs McIlroy. Look after each other. I hope I will see you soon, but if not soon, then one day. One day. I am absolutely sure of it._

_Yours,_

_Xabi_

~~

So, the war was over. The war was over and part of Stevie was relieved but mostly she found she just couldn’t care. She was just as numb as she had been for a year now. The war was over, but at what cost? What cost?

~~

Stevie stared blankly at the stone, the vicar’s words no more than a buzzing in her ears. This was what Xabi was now, this was what she had; a name carved in stone, with his rank and a date. This was the essential information, according to the Ministry of War, needed for a memorial. A living, breathing, laughing person — all the likes and dislikes, all the foibles and contradictions and frustrations and rages and sulks and sarcastic remarks, all the jokes and pleasures and experiences, and all the love and hurt and tears that had made up Xabi Alonso — boiled down to a rank and date. Future generations would look at this stone in the centre of the village, at other stones in other villages, in villages and towns all over the world, and they would never know anything about the people behind the names, about their likes and dislikes, whether they had sweethearts, children, brothers, sisters, friends. They would say, ‘Isn’t it sad, that all these boys died’, but they would never know how sad it truly was. They would never know Xabi.

~~

Stevie was forty four when she fell ill. It was no age to die, really, but it felt like it was time nonetheless. Kate sat by the bed, holding her hand and humming softly. “Don’t miss me too much when I’m gone, will you?” Stevie said, the words coming slowly, her voice hoarse. 

“Of course not,” Kate lied. Stevie smiled sadly, and a little guiltily that she was not quite as sad as she should be. She felt sorry to be leaving Kate behind, leaving her alone, but she wasn’t, in truth, sorry to be leaving. She missed Xabi. And maybe it was just because she wanted to, but she had come to believe what he had said about God looking after them, about them being together again.

Kate’s humming grew more distinct, and Stevie closed her eyes and smiled as she recognised _We’ll Meet Again_ . She loved Kate so much she actually ached with it. She always had. But there had been a hole in her life for the past twenty years that no amount of love or happiness could fill, a part of herself missing that could not be replaced. 

She had had a good life, and a wonderful lover. She could not have asked for better.

But she never had a friend like Xabi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Percys](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Percy) are the Dukes of Northumberland whose seat is at Alnwick castle. Sixteen year old Stevie works as a governess for some appalling distant cousins of my own invention who don't really do anything but are happy to trade on the name and enjoy the money. I'm sure that in reality all the Percy children are and always have been absolute delights.
> 
> Xabi joins [the Northumberland Hussars](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northumberland_Hussars), who fought at the second battle of El Alamein and in the Invasion of Normandy.
> 
> I went back and forth on whether or not there would be evacuees in the village. It is precisely the sort of rural place children would have been evacuated to, but it is on the coast and coastal areas were amongst the first to be evacuated (in case of invasion). However, most of those seem to have been on the south coast. I decided the village was small enough and far enough away from the major shipyards and docks not to be at risk of bombing raids. Therefore, evacuees. The British government requisitioned some private buildings and gave subsidies to the owners of others for their help in housing evacuees, hence Xabi's house being turned into a kind of makeshift hostel/boarding school. Teachers were sent to teach the children, and so we have Miss Smith.
> 
> I originally intended for this chapter to be more lighthearted than the previous two. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. The next chapter takes us into the present day, so brace yourselves for the tsunami of angst that is contemporary Xabi/Stevie. I am going to have a happy ending to this fic, I swear.


	4. A Blood Alcohol Level of 0.19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, huge apologies for the delay. This chapter was even harder to write than I thought it was going to be, and I knew it was going to be hard.
> 
> Also, I know Xabi does in fact call him 'Stevie' but that didn't suit my purposes, so let's pretend he doesn't.

_Liverpool, 2004_

Xabi Alonso had never once felt like there was a gaping hole in his life, that there was something, someone, missing. He had never had any strange dreams that felt too real not to be true, never felt like he belonged somewhere else. Never had any doubts about his future with Nagore or wondered if there might be someone else out there. Never had any sexual or romantic interest in another man. Never felt like there was anything at all lacking in his life, except perhaps some silverware. Never felt like he was anything but wholly and completely himself.

Until the day he walked into Melwood training ground and shook Steven Gerrard’s hand, and it all came crashing down.

“Steven Gerrard, pleasure to have you aboard.” Xabi could only stare at him, dumbfounded. After several awkward seconds he managed to stammer out something that might have been his name. Gerrard smiled sympathetically. “Still struggling with the language, eh? I bet the accent’s not helping much either. Sorry ‘bout that. You’ll get used to us.” Xabi continued to stare. He still had hold of Gerrard’s hand, unable to let go, unable to tell him that no, he wasn’t struggling with the language, he just couldn’t speak; too overwhelmed by a rush of memories that weren’t his own to form a sentence in Spanish let alone English.

“You alright, mate? You’ve gone dead pale,” he distantly heard Gerrard say as the world tilted beneath him. Xabi shook his head. Gerrard let go of his hand and transferred his grip to Xabi’s shoulder. It didn’t help.

“No. I am— I think I am… unwell,” he managed.

“You don’t say,” Gerrard said, and put his arm around him. Xabi’s knees actually buckled under the weight of it, under the weight of what seemed to be hundreds, thousands, of embraces, kisses, oh God. He would have fallen if Gerrard hadn’t caught him and hauled him up. “C’mon, this way. You’ve got the look of a man who needs to throw up. Then we’ll see about getting you a doctor.” Xabi nodded in agreement, like he had a choice, and allowed himself to be half-led, half-carried down the corridor. Gerrard shouldered open a door and steered Xabi inside. “You need me to..?” Gerrard nodded at one of the toilet cubicles. Xabi shook his head.

“No. No, thank you.” Gerrard nodded.

“Alright. I’ll go find the doctor, I’ll be right back, okay?” He gave Xabi a stern look, as if he thought he was going to run away, and disappeared out of the door. He heard voices in the corridor, and Gerrard saying “dunno, but he looked in a bad way” before the door closed fully and there was blissful silence. A wave of nausea hit him out of nowhere, and Xabi staggered into a cubicle just in time as his legs gave way and his body forcefully rejected his breakfast.

Fuck. He laid his head against the cool tile of the wall with a groan. What the fuck was that?

~~

He spent the next couple of days in bed, and only partly to maintain the pretense of being ill. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to think. He was hardly able to think at all. The memories no longer swarmed him but they were… there. Like they had a right to be in his head. The indelible image of Steven Gerrard panting above him, right there alongside the first time he kissed Nagore and the time he fell off his bike and broke his arm. He remembered sitting in the desert, chatting with the rest of his platoon, as clearly as he remembered playing football on the beach with Mikel. Nagore had observed that he was less crotchety and more withdrawn than he usually was when he was ill, but he could remember dying on three separate occasions, and none of them had been peaceful and painless and surrounded by grandchildren. Withdrawn seemed reasonable under the circumstances.

As he saw it, there were three possibilities. One: He was having a psychotic break. Two: He really had lived through previous lives and Steven Gerrard was some sort of… what? Soulmate? He didn’t believe in any such thing. Three: He hadn’t actually found a third yet, but he was hoping there was one, because the first two were not appealing.

Nagore stuck her head around the door. “Will you be alright if I go to my yoga class?”

“What yoga class?”

“The one where I’m going to meet new people since I don’t know anybody here yet? Remember?” Xabi shook his head. Nagore frowned in concern. “I can stay if you need me to. I’ll just meet new people next week.”

“I’ll survive without you for a couple of hours. Go.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” she said, and smiled when he nodded. She blew him a kiss. “There’s soup in the fridge,” she called as she sailed out of the door.

As soon as he heard the front door close he slid out of bed and padded through to the front room, skirting around the still-packed boxes that were left in the hallway. He had Googling to do.

An hour and a half later and he knew very little that he didn’t know before. His symptoms, if that’s what they were, could indicate any number of mental illnesses and conditions, but he knew that before. He would need to see an actual shrink if he wanted a more definite answer, and he really didn’t feel ready for that. His attempts to investigate the previous lives theory had hit a brick wall. First he had tried to find a record of his death in the Second World War to prove, or disprove, the fact that he had actually been there. He had thought it would be easy, that there would be a list of the dead and he would be on it, or not on it. Apparently, it wasn’t that straightforward; the records were incomplete and what records there were were not available online. Trying to find a record of the sodomy trial was even worse. He had no date to work with more specific than ‘17-something’ and that was just a guess based on his fragmented memories and his extremely limited knowledge of historical clothing and ships. Every potential avenue he tried ended in ‘The Ministry of Defence is in the process of making it’s historical records available digitally, if you cannot find what you need please contact blah blah blah’. In desperation he tried Googling his and Gerrard’s names in the hope that it might spit out some ancient census entry or birth record or something, but all that came up was, predictably, talk about his transfer and gossip about Gerrard’s girlfriend and daughter.

~~

He could not hide in bed indefinitely. He would have to go back to work, and soon, and he dreaded what would happen when he did. Was he going to be overwhelmed by memories every time Gerrard touched him? That was going to be inconvenient.

This time, Gerrard was waiting for him when he arrived. At least, he was loitering in reception fiddling with his phone, and he straightened up and fumbled his phone into his pocket when he saw Xabi come in. “You look better,” he said with a smile. He peered at Xabi’s face. “Maybe a bit peaky still, but I think you’ll be alright.”

“Is this your professional diagnosis, doctor?” Xabi pushed away the image of Gerrard in uniform, bending over him to check his pulse. “That I am, uh, peaky?”

Gerrard’s eyes lit up. “Oh, we’ve got a smartarse, have we? Excellent, you’ll fit right in.” He slung a friendly arm around Xabi’s shoulder and shepherded him towards the door; Xabi’s knees did not give way. He held in a sigh of relief. “C’mon, let’s try this again.”

“Perhaps I can make it to the locker room this time.”

Gerrard laughed and Xabi felt a warmth spread through him. “Let’s hope so.” Steven took his arm from Xabi’s shoulder in order to push open a door and then didn’t put it back. Xabi tried to ignore how much he missed it. “Gerrard, I wanted to thank you for, for, um, oh damn this language. For helping me. Before.”

Gerrard wrinkled his nose. “First off, you’re welcome, but I wasn’t going to just leave you to collapse on the carpet, was I? Second, call me Steven or Stevie. Everybody does.”

Stevie. Stevie had been the girl. Small and wiry, he seemed to recall; she had barely come up to his shoulder. He could not begin to reconcile her with the solid mass of muscle striding along beside him. Steven it was, then.

“Very well, Steven,” he said, and got a grin in return. He was so busy looking at Steven that he almost walked into him when he stopped in front of a set of double doors. It sounded as though a small riot had broken out on the other side.

“Well,” Steven said. “You’ve made it this far in one piece. Let’s see if we can get you onto the pitch.” He pushed open the door and the volume increased dramatically. “Brace yourself, lad.”

~~

Playing with Steven was like nothing Xabi had ever experienced. It wasn’t that he was good, though he was — that much was obvious even from a basic training session. Playing an actual match was something else.

Suddenly football was about more than just angles and runs; suddenly it wasn’t a game. It made Xabi think about things he had never truly associated with football, things like freedom and beauty and belonging and destiny. Huge things, important things. He felt like this was what he was born for; not just football, but _this_ football, here, now, with Steven. This was why they had been drawn together. He was getting a glimpse of something bigger, something more. It was absolutely terrifying and Xabi didn’t know how he had lived without it all this time.

~~

Inspired by what he had taken to calling ‘Xabi number two’ (and determinedly ignoring the fact that this made him ‘Xabi number four’ and not just ‘Xabi’), he decided to try a different tack in his research. Fortunately for him, what had once required a vast fortune, unlimited free time and a willingness to travel to the remotest parts of the world was now available at his fingertips. Unfortunately for him, the world now was as full of delusional idiots as it had been in the nineteenth century, and his attempts to learn more about reincarnation in general (and its feasibility specifically) were continually thwarted by the fact that all the chat rooms and forums on the subject were filled with people with no sense of perspective or reality. There was a lot of talk about hypnosis and past-life regression, but nothing that seemed to resonate with his own experience, or even common sense. He finally cracked one Wednesday, exhausted after a tough training session, posting ‘YOU CAN’T _ALL_ HAVE BEEN CLEOPATRA, THAT SIMPLY ISN’T POSSIBLE, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE’ in the largest font he could, before logging out, clearing his browser history and resolving never to go near those people ever, ever again.

He was going to have to do something drastic like join the library, and just hope that nobody recognised him and that Nagore never found the books.

~~

The memories came in disjointed fragments, blurred around the edges. Sometimes they crept in almost unnoticed and he smiled to himself as he would at any other memory of good times, before he remembered that these good times weren’t his, and he pushed them angrily away. Sometimes they came suddenly, vertiginous moments where Steven smiled at him and the locker room floor seemed to pitch like the deck of a ship. He remembered entire conversations, word for word it seemed, where he could hear the exact lilt of Steven’s voice, feel his breath on his skin.

It was effortless to picture Steven in his Navy uniform, his face slightly different then, more angular, but still somehow the same. He remembered the exact feeling of frustrated longing that had consumed him; in later memories the frustration was gone, but never the longing.

Sometimes there were just images, and sometimes they came with emotions attached to them. One day, the image of a pretty young woman, dark hair and dark eyes, in 1940’s dress. He didn’t know who she was but the thought of her made him smile. Two days later he had a name to go with the face: Kate. A young man, tall and slender, with a smile that these days would probably have adorned the walls of teenaged girls’ bedrooms up and down the country. He made Xabi feel sick with a combination of desire and guilt and a low, swooping feeling that reminded him of when he first fell in love with Nagore. He tried not to think about him too much.

There were things he knew and he had no idea how he knew them, had no memory of learning them. The knowledge was just there. He knew that in the eighteenth century he had been born in Toledo and he had spoken French, Portuguese and Italian as well as Spanish and English. He knew that there was a spot on the back of Steven’s neck, just below where the collar of a shirt would sit, that could make him melt. He knew that his Victorian mother had been from a lesser branch of an important family, and she had married beneath her. He knew that at one stage Steven had been in an asylum, though he wasn’t sure which life that had been. He knew how long it took to get from Madrid to Lisbon on a good horse if the weather stayed clear, and he was pretty sure he could operate an M10 Wolverine Tank Destroyer if he needed to.

The most vivid memories came at night, in dreams, though these could also be fractured and disorientating. He would wake in the morning and not know where he was. Sometimes it took him several seconds to work out why there was a woman lying beside him instead of Steven. On those mornings he made Nagore breakfast in bed and kissed her with an edge of desperation.

It all felt so real, too real to be just a product of a broken mind. But then, people who thought they were God, or thought the government could hear their thoughts, probably felt like that too.

~~

He was staring absently out of the window, chewing on some muesli and watching the way the sharp early-autumn sunlight reflected off the dark water of the Mersey, when it hit him: something so obvious he could have kicked himself. Listening out for any sign of Nagore getting out of bed, he booted up the computer and found the most detailed map of England that he could.

And there it was. Tucked away in a tiny little cove on the north east coast; a small, thoroughly unimportant village that Xabi had never been to, and yet he knew it anyway. His heart pounding, he did a little bit more searching. No famous person had ever been born there, no historical event ever happened there, no myths or legends took place there. There was no possible way for Xabi to know it even existed, unless he’d been there before. The ragged line of the east coast blurred as he stared at the screen, at the proof that what his heart had been telling him was indeed the truth.

Well, at least he wasn’t crazy.

~~

Somewhat unexpectedly, it was Carra who brought it up first.

“So, what do yous all think of this reincarnation stuff then?” There was total silence around the table.

“You what?” Steven said at last.

“Reincarnation. You know, past lives and stuff. Like, you used to be a farmer or a Roman gladiator or something. D’you believe in it?”

“ _Kurwa_ , three pints and he’s already going existential on us.”

“Ooohh, existential. Big word, Dudek. Been reading the dictionary, have we?”

“Don’t be stupid, Finns. Everyone knows goalkeepers can’t read. He must’ve heard it somewhere.” Steven grinned at Dudek as Dudek gave him the finger.

“Shut up. Go on, Carra. Enlighten us.”

“I was just thinking about it, that’s all. I watched this documentary last week—”

“You? Carra, you can’t even fucking spell documentary.”

“Piss off, Kewell. I don’t need to spell it to fucking watch it, do I? Anyway,” he continued, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the rabble. “It was actually two documentaries—”

“Two documentaries? Well, fuck me,” Kewell said, grinning delightedly at Carra’s growing ire.

“He’ll be signing up for the Open University next. We’ll have to call him Professor,” Finns added.

“Will you all shut the fuck up!” Carra bellowed, causing the entire table, and in fact the entire pub, to fall silent. “Right. As I was saying. It was two documentaries.” He glowered around the table, daring them all to speak. “It was a Channel 4 thing so there was a stupid one about all these nutters, right, who all thought they’d been Napoleon or whatever.” Xabi ducked his head to hide a shaky smile. He was familiar with the type, and also familiar with the quivering that had started low in his chest. “But after it there was like a serious proper one about all the actual, you know, like philosophy of it and stuff and… and… well to be honest I’d had a few by that point so I don’t really remember.” There was a collective groan from the table. “But it was dead interesting!”

“Thanks for that, Carra.”

“Can I have the last five minutes of my life back please?”

“I don’t like it,” Riise piped up before Carra could hit the still-grinning Kewell. Finns was doubled over with laughter. Xabi glanced over at Steven to see what the captain thought of it all and found him smiling and shaking his head. “It’s too weird, isn’t it? It’s like you’re not really yourself. If you’re you now, and you used to be a Roman gladiator or a farmer, then which is the real you? Who are you?” Everyone stared at him. “What? He asked.”

“And I value your viewpoint, mate,” Carra said, raising his glass to him.

“Glad someone does.”

Steven leaned into Xabi, his shoulder pressing against him. His breath was hot on Xabi’s cheek when he said, “I know I say this a lot, but they’re all fucking idiots, mate. Sorry.”

Xabi shook his head. “They are not so bad.”

“I reckon I could have been a Roman gladiator,” Kewell said thoughtfully.

“You realise that being from the same country as Russell Crowe doesn’t mean you actually are Russel Crowe, don’t you?”

“Russell Crowe is an actor, you dick. He’s not really a gladiator.”

“You don’t fucking say.”

Steven gave Xabi a pointed look. Xabi laughed. “Okay, fine, yes. They’re idiots.”

“Oi! That isn’t very nice, Alonso!” Carra called from across the table. Xabi shrugged.

“We were talking about you, not to you,” Steven said. “Bugger off.”

Carra opened his mouth to respond but was distracted by Dirk Kuyt. Xabi watched Steven as Steven watched his teammates with a fond smile on his face, and the conversation shifted to whether _Gladiator_ was better than _Alien_. When he couldn’t stand it any more, Xabi tapped his hand on Steven’s arm. Steven immediately turned to him, that damn smile not leaving his face, but shifting into something else, something softer. “What do you think?” Xabi said, his heart pounding. “About what Carra said?”

“I dunno, mate,” Steven said, swallowing the last of his pint. Xabi watched his Adam’s apple move with the action. “I mean, _Alien_ ’s a classic. But so’s _Blade Runner_.”

Xabi laughed. It was that or cry. “No, not that. The other thing. The, uh, past lives thing.” Xabi felt sick. This was not the time or place to be having this conversation. But the subject had arisen and Xabi couldn’t let the opportunity go.

Steven looked thoughtful. “Dunno,” he said at last. “Haven’t really thought much about it to be honest. I’m just me, y’know? I mean, I’ve had, like deja vu and stuff before, everyone gets that don’t they? Something to do with your brain processing information from one eye quicker than the other eye or something,” he continued, blithely unaware of Xabi’s heart crashing down through his chest beside him. Steven frowned and his eyes took on a distant glaze. His voice was soft and hesitant when he spoke again. “There was this one time, we were down in London and we ended up on St James’s Street, you know where all the gentlemen’s clubs are? Oh, you probably don’t, sorry.” Xabi gripped the edge of his chair so tight he thought he might break it. “All these posh clubs where you’ve got to be the fourteenth Duke of wherever to be a member and they all sit around reading the Times and snorting coke and stuff. Anyway, I got the strongest feeling of deja vu there, I mean really strong, and I’m sure I’d never been there before. It was weird. I just stood there in the street for ages and it wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t shake it.” He snapped out of the daze and turned to Xabi with a smile, his eyes and his forehead clear. “Probably nothing in it, eh? Just one of them things.”

“Y- you don’t believe in it, then?” Xabi stuttered, pressing his hands between his knees so Steven wouldn’t see how much they were shaking.

“Nah, don’t think so. I’m not ruling it out or anything, but I don’t think so. Besides, I’m not the most devout Catholic, but I’m pretty sure the Pope doesn’t approve. What about you?”

“I’m not the most devout Catholic either,” Xabi managed, prompting a laugh from Steven. “No. No, I think you are probably right. Nothing in it.” His voice wavered; he couldn’t stop it. Steven’s lips pursed in concern and he tipped his head towards Xabi.

“You’re having a fucking laugh, mate,” Carra’s raucous tones cut across the moment. “Fucking _Thelma and Louise_? Christ.”

~~

“Hey, you want to go for a drink tonight?” Steven’s breath curled in the air like smoke and they hunched their shoulders against the cold as they jogged off the training pitch.

“Sure. Is this for the team or am I to expect another night of listening to you, Carra and Finns arguing about Phil Colins and Peter Gabriel?”

“No, I meant just you and me. I want us— I’d like to get to know you better. I’d like us to be friends.”

The words were out of Xabi’s mouth before he could stop them; he didn’t even know where they came from. “Um, actually, I prefer not to have those sorts of relationships with work colleagues. Friends are friends and work is work, you know.” Steven stopped running and Xabi ran a couple of paces past him before turning to face him, horrified at what had just come out of his mouth. Steven looked stricken.

“Oh. Right. Sure, mate, I understand.” Steven started backing away, actually backing away from him, his face flushed.

“Steven, wait—”

“No, no. I get it, it’s fine. See you later, yeah?” Steven ran to the locker room before Xabi could stop him, and by the time he caught up with him they were surrounded by teammates, Steven throwing his shin pad at Carra’s head and avoiding Xabi’s eye. He wouldn’t have known what to say to him anyway.

~~

  
_England was still just a blur in the distance but Xabi was already twitchy with anticipation. Three years. It had felt like three lifetimes._

_Slowly, slowly, the blur resolved itself into the docks and wharves and cranes and ships of Liverpool. It didn’t matter that he had never set foot there before; there was no sand and no gunfire, no screaming. It was loud, it was smelly, it was raining slightly. It was only a couple of train rides from where he belonged._

_He stepped out onto the Albert Dock and smiled. He was home._

~~

Xabi hadn’t realised just how much Steven touched him until he stopped doing it. The hand that lingered on the back of his neck half a second longer than it did on Garcia’s or Kuyt’s was gone, the fingers that ruffled his hair no longer tangled momentarily in the strands before withdrawing, the arm around his waist was now around his shoulder. Steven didn’t hang back when the celebration was over to give Xabi an extra pat on the back or shoulder. Xabi was just like any other teammate now, which was exactly what Xabi had asked for. Xabi wanted to scream.

Xabi tried not to be weird about it, but he knew he was failing. He didn’t know how to act around this new, distant but perfectly friendly Steven. He was stiff and awkward, always reacting a split-second too late when Steven made a joke or asked a question. Sometimes Xabi would tense up when Steven touched him, and Steven would mutter ‘sorry, mate’, and step away.

It couldn’t carry on, and the only person who could do something about it was Xabi. So one day, after a particularly awful training session where Xabi had actually shaken Steven’s hand when he tried to hug him after a goal, Xabi gathered up his courage and took out his phone. And then stood there, staring at the screen, at the number that he’d had since he arrived but had never called.

His thumb hovered over the call button, then he opened up his text messages instead. _Are you still here? Can we talk?_

The reply was almost immediate. _still in carpark about 2 head home. silver jag outside reception. i’ll wait._

It took a second for Xabi to figure out that ‘jag’ was Jaguar, and then he headed apprehensively out to the carpark. He spotted the car immediately, parked in its prime spot right outside the entrance. As he walked towards it the passenger door sprang open and he saw Steven gesturing for him to get in. Taking a deep breath, he climbed into the passenger seat. He still had absolutely no idea what he was going to say.

“So,” Steven said after an uncomfortable silence that seemed to last for several minutes but was probably only a few seconds.

“So.”

“You wanted to talk to me?” Steven prompted.

“Yes. I, um, I…” Xabi ran a hand through his hair in frustration, aware of Steven waiting patiently beside him. Always so damn patient with the non-English speakers, just calmly waiting for them to find the right words. He looked at him, hoping to find some hint as to what the hell he should say, but he could not see past the mask of politeness. “I wanted to… to apologise. For before, when I said—”

“No need, mate,” Steven said, with the same friendly smile he’d been wearing for the last few weeks. “I told you, I get it. Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to say I wasn’t a little hurt, but, you know. I actually respect you for it, for been up front, I—”

“No, Steven. No. I didn’t mean what I said, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Steven frowned and Xabi shifted in his seat at the urge to reach out and smooth out the wrinkles in his forehead. “Then why did you say it?” And that was the question, wasn’t it? The question Xabi couldn’t answer. There was no rational explanation for his behaviour.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, letting the words just come to him without thinking about it too hard. “I’m not very good with people and I find social things difficult sometimes and, well, I suppose I panicked.” It wasn’t entirely untrue; the number of people with whom he was truly comfortable was quite small, though he was good at faking comfort, even to himself. Steven didn’t need to know that it wasn’t at all what had happened, or that he would be one of the people Xabi would be comfortable with if he let himself. “I really did not mean what I said. I— I would like to be your friend.”

The smile that spread across Steven’s face set Xabi’s pulse racing like he was waiting to step onto the pitch. “Okay. Okay. Good, then.” The smile faltered a second. “You’re not just saying that, right? Because you feel bad? I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t really want.”

“No, I’m not just saying it. I promise.”

“Well, if you promise. How can I doubt it?” Steven smiled at him again and Xabi couldn’t help but smile back. He didn’t know what he would have done if they had been somewhere other than Melwood, if they had been somewhere private where no-one would see him lean forward and press his lips to Steven’s. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For telling me what you did. That can’t have been easy.”

Xabi shrugged. “I suppose I find it easy to talk to you.” Another lie that wasn’t a lie; another moment of honesty that wasn’t quite as honest as Steven believed.

Steven gave him that smile again, and Xabi felt the guilt, and everything else, recede.

~~

The world had exploded into red. Blinding, deafening red. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of grass green, a flash of bright silver. But for the most part, Xabi’s world was a blaze of scarlet.

He knew without seeing that the arms around him were Steven’s, that the indecipherable voice screaming in his ear was Steven’s, that the joy thrumming in his veins was Steven’s. His heart pounding in his chest sounded like cannon-fire and he thought the euphoria might actually kill him, for a second wanted it to, wanted to get it over with.

The kiss was nothing, nothing. A lark, a spur of the moment joke. Steven would have kissed whoever happened to be next to him, did kiss whoever happened to be next to him, all night. Xabi had thought that if — when — they kissed it would be like fireworks, like coming home, like any one of a hundred clichés that were only clichés because they were true. It was nothing like that. It was nothing at all; a brief, unremarkable nothing, and that burned deeper than any desire. Xabi didn’t even notice the pain at the time, too drunk on victory and Steven and togetherness and _You’ll Never Walk Alone_ to feel it. But after, when Istanbul was behind them, already a memory, then he felt it; a deep, deep cut that hurt more than Xabi would ever have supposed. Steven had kissed him, and it hadn’t meant a thing.

~~

_Xabi had never imagined anything could be as hot as the desert, never thought such a thing could exist. He had never known he could despise sand so much, never known it could be so infuriating and ever-present that he could hate it even more than the death and agony and eternity of war. He wanted to tell Stevie all about it, the hatred and frustration and anger, pour it out onto paper and perhaps it would be out of him then and he could care about important things again. But there was nothing to care about here except the heat and the sand; everything he had ever cared about was either dead or far away._

_He put pen to paper anyway, because what else could he do?_

_Dear Stevie,_

_The desert is awful, truly awful…_

~~

“Why are you reading about Buddhism?” Steven asked as he fastened his seatbelt.

“Hmm?” Xabi asked, distractedly hunting for the keys he had just dropped into the footwell.

“The books,” Steven said, indicating the back seat of Xabi’s car.

“Oh. You know. Just reading. I like to learn.” Finally, he retrieved the keys and started the car.

“About Buddhism?”

“Sure. Why not?” Fuck. He’d forgotten about the books when he offered Steven a lift. Steven shrugged, then reached into the back seat and grabbed one of the books. Xabi glanced at him.

“What? I’m educating myself. You’re not the only one who can read.” He opened the book to the page Xabi had bookmarked and read for a couple of minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, Xabi could see him frowning. “This isn’t because of what Carra said, is it?”

“What do you mean?” Xabi said as casually as he could.

“At the pub that time. Ages ago. He was asking about reincarnation and stuff and, well. You seemed a bit funny about it, that’s all.”

“I suppose it got me thinking. We are raised with certain beliefs and often we don’t question them, or don’t question them much. I think it’s good to see things from another perspective. Broaden your horizons. Open your mind.” Xabi wracked his brains for any more overused English idioms he knew, but he seemed to have used them all.

“You want to be careful with opening your mind, mate. You open it too much, stuff starts falling out.”

“Steven!” Xabi laughed.

“I’m joking, I’m joking. Open minds are good.” He continued to flick through the book. “You’re not thinking of converting then?”

“It’s not in my immediate plans, no.”

Steven reached the end of the book, where Xabi had stuck a post-it note to the inside back cover. “What’s this, your reading list? ‘Concepts of Hinduism’,” he read out loud. “‘Exploring The Tibetan Book Of The Dead’, ‘The Celts and Rebirth’, ‘Introduction to—’ What’s Jainism?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t read the book yet.”

“Smart arse,” Steven said fondly. They didn’t speak for a couple of minutes, the silence only broken by Steven fiddling with the radio, flicking from station to station before finally giving up with a sigh. Xabi braced himself for what was surely coming. “D’you reckon there something to it then? Reincarnation and that?”

“It’s a possibility isn’t it?” Xabi said as casually as he could. “You said yourself, you went to — where was it, St James’ Street? — and you got a feeling of deja vu you couldn’t get rid of even though you’ve never been there.” Steven nodded. “Well, maybe you have been there. You just don’t remember.” It took a tremendous effort to keep his voice light. Steven laughed.

“What? You think I was some posh London gent in a past life?” Xabi gripped the steering wheel hard, tried to keep his hands steady and the car straight. “I don’t think so, mate.”

“It would explain some things though, wouldn’t it? Things like deja vu or…”

“Or…?”

“You know. Weird dreams. Or sometimes when you meet someone, and it’s like you’ve always known them.”

“Xabi,” Steven said softly. He sounded almost like he was in pain and Xabi had never longed for a car journey to be over so much in his life. Steven’s hand settled briefly over Xabi’s where it rested on the gearstick and squeezed it. Then it was gone.

“You don’t believe it?”

“No. I think some people are just compatible and sometimes it takes a while for that to become apparent and sometimes it happens straight away. That’s all. I don’t believe it’s because they were friends in a past life or whatever, sorry. I’m surprised you do, to be honest.” Xabi’s heart clenched so tight he thought it might have stopped working.

“I don’t really,” he managed. “I’m just curious. It’s an intellectual exercise.” Steven nodded. They finished the journey in silence.

~~

“Xabi? Xabi, mate, Xabi.”

“Hmmm?”

“Not falling asleep on me, are ya? Lightweight.”

“No. Resting my eyes.”

“Ay, alright then. Listen. Listen. Listen.”

“I am listening.”

“No, listen. D’you ever feel like, like, like some things are meant to be?”

“No.”

“No?”

“We make our own destiny. There is no fate, only our choices.”

“Oh? Oh. You don’t feel like, maybe, this is meant to be?”

“This?”

“This. You being here, football, Istanbul. Us.”

“Oh. That.”

“That.”

“Maybe some things.”

~~

Xabi was sure his smile couldn’t possibly look genuine, but he did his best. “Congratulations. When’s the big day?”

Steven rubbed the back of his neck, happy and embarrassed. “Thanks, mate. About time we did it, eh? The wedding’s in June. Think you’ll be able to make it?”

No. Absolutely no way. Xabi shook his head and tried to look regretful. “Probably not. We will go back to Spain, see our families. Sorry.”

“Fair enough. Shame you won’t be there.”

Xabi pulled him into a hug. “I am very happy for you, Steven.”

~~

Xabi had never been a man much given to jealousy. If he wanted something he went out and got it, or tried to. If he couldn’t get it, he let it go. There was no point dwelling on things you couldn’t have. Nor was he a violent man, even if he was sometimes a little careless with his studs. Which was why it was disconcerting to find that, these days, he was thinking increasingly about punching Fernando Torres really hard in the face.

It was not Fernando’s fault. He liked Fernando, always had. He was intelligent and kind-hearted, and devoted to both his girlfriend and his football. They got on very well. Unfortunately, so did Fernando and Steven, in an instinctive and immediate way that Xabi had supposed was his and his alone. Steven’s wife was one thing, Xabi could live with that; Fernando was another.

There’s nothing to be upset about, he reminded himself as Fernando and Steven grinned at each other across the training pitch after another inch-perfect pass found Fernando’s feet; this is good for the team, good for all of them. I have no right to be resentful, he reminded himself as Fernando and Steven hung off each other after yet another goal celebration; Xabi did not own Steven, he could be friends with whoever he liked. I can’t blame Fernando, he reminded himself as he read Fernando’s comments in the papers about his ‘connection’ with Steven, about how they could read each other’s minds; the press kept asking him about it, he had no choice but to talk about it.

I am not jealous, I’m not, he thought as he slumped in front of Match of The Day with the lights off, a half-drunk bottle of beer clutched in one hand. On-screen, Fernando and Steven stood side by side, glancing shyly at each other as Steven offered up the usual platitudes about the lads doing a great job. Xabi could tell Fernando didn’t understand a word of it, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t need to understand each other.

He took another swig of his beer and thought uncharitable and unfair thoughts about Fernando’s language skills.

~~

Fernando was waiting for him by his car one day after training, and he should have known, should have seen this coming. But Fernando fooled you, with his boyish face and his freckles and his quiet smile. He lulled you into a false sense of security and people forgot, or simply didn’t realise until it was too late: he didn’t miss a fucking thing.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” There was a long silence. Xabi may not be able to escape this conversation, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Fernando shook his head.

“Xabi, do you have a problem with me?” Right. Straight to the point. Of course. “Look, if it’s something I’ve done I’d like you to tell me so we can sort it out. And if it’s not me, well, what is it?”

A moment’s hesitation, and then, “It’s not you.” It wasn’t, not really. Fernando hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t done anything at all. Xabi was the problem.

“Okay. So what is it then?” Xabi stared at the ground. What was he supposed to say? ‘Steven and I are soulmates and I feel like he belongs to me even though a large part of me hates the very idea of it and every time you touch him I want to kill you’? He could feel Fernando’s eyes on him and felt like a coward for not being able to meet them. But Fernando saw too much and Xabi was sure he would give himself away, if he hadn’t already. “Stevie is,” Fernando began, and Xabi gritted his teeth at his use of the nickname, even though he knew perfectly well that just about everyone called him that. “Stevie is… he is a good captain,” Fernando said carefully.

“He is.”

“And he is— people respect him. Look up to him.” Xabi risked a glance at Fernando; it wasn’t like him to be this hesitant in Spanish. He was still watching Xabi, watching his reactions. “He is easy to… easy to love. People love him.” Xabi nodded. People did indeed love Steven. “Right then,” Fernando said, as if something had just been resolved. “We’re okay, you and me?” Xabi nodded again and Fernando smiled. “Great.” He clapped Xabi on the shoulder. “I’m glad we could talk about this. I think it’s important. For the team, you know.”

“Sure, sure,” Xabi said, finally finding his voice.

“Great. See you tomorrow.” And Fernando strode off towards his own car, apparently quite happy with whatever it was he had just got from Xabi. Muttering to himself about overly-observant Madrileños, Xabi got into his car and drove home to his girlfriend.

~~

Xabi hummed quietly to himself as he all but skipped into the locker room at Melwood. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” Steven laughed.

Xabi grasped Steven’s forearms. “Steven. Nagore is— I am to be a father.” The smile of unrestrained delight that spread across Steven’s face made something swell and crack in Xabi’s chest. He pulled Xabi forward and wrapped his arms around him.

“Made up for you mate, really,” he murmured against Xabi’s ear. “It’s the best thing in the world, it really is.”

“Thank you,” Xabi said, pulling away. “I am very happy about it.”

“I can see that.”

“Oi, oi,” Carra barged in. “What’s all the hugging about?” Steven gave Xabi’s arm one last squeeze and turned to face the locker room.

“Lads,” he bellowed. “Alonso’s got some news.”

~~

“I mean, I love my home team as much as the next person,” Xabi said, but broke off when Pepe snickered. He glanced at Steven beside him and Fernando across the table. Steven was watching him with an amused and curious light in his eyes. Fernando was deep in the sports pages, trying to find the Atlético result, not paying any attention to the conversation. “Okay, fine, maybe not as much as the next person,” he conceded. “I’m just saying, we don’t all have the luxury of having a home team worth staying with.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fernando shoot him a glare; apparently he was paying more attention than Xabi had thought. Pepe threw back his head and laughed.

“Yes, that sounds like real love,” he said as the Melwood canteen bustled around them. “I love you but you’re not worth staying with.”

“That came out wrong.”

“You don’t say,” Steven said, his eyes twinkling. “Go on then, lad. Explain yourself.”

“I just meant, you have to move on. How many players stay with their childhood team? Not many. How many football teams are there in the country, in Europe, in the world? Hundreds. Thousands. And only a fraction of those have a realistic chance of winning their league, of winning anything. So if you are good and your club is not, what do you do? You have to choose. Your club or yourself. And who would choose to let their talent and hard work go to waste? No one. No one would do that. You are lucky, Steven, I don’t think you know how lucky you are. You can stay at the club you have loved all your life and still have a chance of success. The rest of us, we have to learn to move on.” Pepe and Fernando were nodding in agreement. Steven was frowning.

“Yeah, I get that mate. I really do. I just don’t get how? How do you do it?”

“Some of us don’t,” Pepe said, flicking Fernando’s hand. “Eh, Niño?” Fernando elbowed him in the ribs and Pepe laughed. Xabi and Steven ignored them.

“You just have to, I don’t know the word in English.” Xabi wracked his brains “Uh, _compartimentar_? he said, looking at Pepe and Fernando for help. They both shrugged. “Divide things up.”

“Compartmentalise?” Steven said, sounding as though he wasn’t too sure of his own English.

Xabi nodded. “Could be. So, you compartmentalise, yes? You divide things up. Here is my life in England and here is my life in Spain. Here is football and here is Nagore. They are all part of me but they are separate. Here is my childhood, here is Real Sociedad, here is Donostia. They are in the past, they are behind me.”

Steven was frowning in earnest now. “But you can’t just split things up into little boxes. Donostia isn’t behind you, you go back there all the time. You still live next door to Arteta. Your childhood is part of you, your country is part of you. Football and Nagore are part of your life wherever you are, how separate can they be?”

Xabi shrugged. “I may go back to Donostia and belong to it when I am there. But when I am not there, I put it away. I cannot explain it better than that.”

“Well, I couldn’t do it. I don’t think I could cut myself into pieces like that.”

Maybe you should, Xabi thought. Maybe, for once, you should keep something back, not throw your whole self into every goddamn thing as though you were infinite, as though you had self to spare. As though everything was worthy of you, of your best effort.

“Everybody’s different,” he said.

~~

It was the most terrifying thing Xabi had ever seen, and the most beautiful. The tiny little bundle in his arms, with its little, red, screwed up face, looking more like a monkey than anything else. It was so small, so fragile, it hardly seemed real. The bundle, his son — his _son_ , god, he had a son — squirmed slightly, snuffled in his sleep, his mouth opening and closing like the world’s weirdest fish. Xabi suddenly had to sit down, terrified he would drop him, as he pushed the blanket back from Jon’s face with shaking fingers. There was no epiphany, he didn’t suddenly understand himself, or the world, or Steven, or Nagore, or how they were all supposed to fit together. If anything, he was more confused than ever. But one thing was very clear to him. He would do anything, go anywhere, make any sacrifice, to protect the little stranger in his arms.

~~

The lights had been turned down and everyone was uncharacteristically quiet; in the dimness of the cabin Xabi could see his teammates seemed to be mostly asleep. Somewhere nearby someone — probably Ramos — was already snoring quietly. Xabi turned over, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, only to find himself face to face with a wide-awake Fernando. Of course. “Hi,” Fernando whispered.

“Hi.”

“Everything okay?”

“Uhuh.”

“Okay.” Fernando continued to watch him as he wriggled about.

“What?” he hissed, a little more harshly than he intended. Fernando looked unperturbed.

“You know you can talk to me, don’t you? About anything. Anything at all. I won’t— you can talk to me about anything. I might not be able to help. But I can listen.”

Maybe it was the intimacy of the low-lighting and the whispered conversation; maybe it was Fernando’s ridiculous doe-eyes staring at him in the half-light, full of understanding and fucking compassion; maybe he was just so, so tired of it all that his defences were weaker than he realised. Whatever it was, he found himself saying, “It’s like I’m being pulled in five different directions. I don’t know what I want. No, I do know what I want, but I can’t have it, not all of it, and I don’t even know if I want to want it. I shouldn’t want it. But I do and I don’t know how to stop.”

Fernando nodded thoughtfully, as though Xabi’s rambling had made perfect sense. “If you are being pulled in different directions, then maybe you need to pick a direction to go in.”

“What if I can’t choose?”

“I think you have to,” Fernando said softly. “I don’t like it, but you have to. You can’t always be torn in two.”

“I suppose not,” he said with a sigh. Something tugged at his memory. “Is that from something?”

“What?”

“What you just said about being torn in two.” He knew he was right when Fernando’s expression turned sheepish. Sometimes when he thought he’d heard something before, it turned out he’d heard it two hundred years ago. Not this time. “It’s from Lord of The Rings, isn’t it? You fucking nerd.”

“Good advice is good advice, regardless of where it comes from,” Fernando said primly. Xabi shook his head.

“Just shut up and go to sleep.”

“Both of you shut up and go to sleep,” Cesc’s voice came from across the aisle. Fernando threw a balled-up sick bag at his head and then pulled his blanket up to his chin.

“Xabi, seriously,” he whispered, quieter even than before. “You can’t carry on like this. You need to either change it, or find a way to make peace with it.”

“How do I do that?” Fernando shrugged. “Thanks, you’ve been a big help.” Xabi snuggled down under his too-small blanket.

Fernando smiled sadly and closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Samwise.”

~~

Xabi could practically hear his previous selves judging him. It was easy for them, they were lucky; they all died before they had to make these sorts of decisions he thought, and then immediately hated himself, because what sort of sociopath thought things like that?

So maybe they weren’t lucky. They still didn’t get to judge him. They never had Nagore, they never had Jon. They had given everything, risked everything, for Steven Gerrard, and what had it got them? A gun to the head, a blade to the throat. Fuck that. He glared out of the window at the Singapore skyline, which continued to buzz and bustle and not give a shit about Xabi Alonso and his problems.

Madrid it was, then.

~~

“Stay.” Steven was barely through the door, hadn’t even taken his jacket off. “Don’t go. Stay.” Xabi put down the glass he had been wrapping in newspaper and stared at him.

“I can’t.”

“’Course you can.” Steven stepped round a pile of books and a packing box half-full of kitchen utensils and came to stand right in front of him. “Please. Don’t go.”

“ _Hostia_. God save me from stubborn, stupid Englishmen. Even if I wanted to stay, which I don’t, I cannot. The contract’s signed. What do you want me to do, call up Real Madrid and say, ‘sorry, I made a mistake’? You think they’re going to say to me, ‘no problem, Xabi, we’ll just tear up this thirty-million pound contract. No bad feelings’? No. They will not let me go. And I do not want them to. I want to go to Madrid and I am going to Madrid, I am sorry.”

Steven’s face was hard, his jaw set. Then all the tension abruptly left him and he sagged against the kitchen counter. “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He straightened up and absently reached out and plucked a piece of lint off Xabi’s t-shirt. “I didn’t come here to argue. I didn’t even really come here to ask you to stay, not really. I know you have to go.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Where’s Nagore? And Jon?” he asked, looking around with a frown as though he might have somehow missed them in the empty apartment.

“Already in Madrid getting the house sorted out there.”

“Makes sense I suppose,” Steven said, picking at another piece of lint. This time it was on his collar; his fingertips brushed against Xabi’s throat.

“Why are you here, Steven?” he asked quietly. Steven shifted his weight forward. He was mere millimetres away; Xabi could feel the heat from his skin.

“I wanted to say goodbye. Properly, like. Not with everybody around, not with… I didn’t want you to leave without…”

“Without what?” Xabi said, though he had an idea of what was coming. He balled his hands into fists to keep them from trembling.

“I’m sorry mate, truly, but I have to. I have to try,” Steven said, cupping the back of Xabi’s head.

Steven’s lips against his own felt like drowning. Xabi took the kiss and swallowed it down, let it choke him, clinging to Steven for just a moment, just this one moment. Then he pushed him away.

“Steven, don’t.”

“Xabi.”

“Don’t. What good will it do?”

“What good will it do?” Steven echoed. “Are you serious?”

“I’m leaving.”

“All the more reason, don’t you think?”

“No. No, I don’t.” Xabi took another step backwards, out of arm’s reach. “We can’t do this, Steven. We can’t.”

“Right. Right, yeah. Should’ve known really. This is how it’s always been with us, isn’t it? Me pushing for more, you pulling away. God, you didn’t even want to be friends with me in the first place, did you? I had to guilt you into it.”

“What? Steven, no I—” Xabi stepped back into Steven’s personal space and grasped him by both arms. “No, that was a mistake, you know that. That was me being stupid.”

“So is this,” Steven insisted.

“No. This is me trying to do the right thing. Nagore, Alex—” Steven looked away. “I love Nagore, and I know you love Alex. We can’t do this to them.”

Steven shook his head slowly and looked back up at him. “But we’re already doing this to them. This,” he gestured at the space between them. “Us. We’re already cheating, aren’t we? Always have been, since we met. The physical stuff, that’s just a formality.”

Xabi stared at him. “A formality?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I stood up in front of my family and friends and promised to love Alex and only Alex for the rest of my life. And it was a lie, Xabi, I knew it when I said it and I know it now. Sex couldn’t possibly be any greater betrayal than standing in that church and promising her my heart knowing she could never have all of it.”

“No,” Xabi said as vehemently as he could. “No. You can’t control how you feel, but you can control what you do. It’s one thing to… to feel something, it is another thing to choose to act on it. That is a choice you make, and choosing to do that is far worse than, than having feelings for someone else.”

“Do you really believe that?” Xabi closed his eyes, unable to look at him any longer. He heard Steven move, then there was a hand cupping his cheek. “I don’t understand this, y’know? I don’t understand why I feel the way I do, how I can feel this way and still love Alex as much as I ever did. More, even. I don’t understand how I can lose minutes at a time just looking at your face, admiring the angle of your bloody jaw like a teenage girl with a crush. Sometimes when you’re speaking I’ll watch your mouth, and I don’t even hear what you’re saying because all I can think about is leaning in and kissing you. And I don’t understand it, Xabi, I don’t understand it at all. But I’m not afraid of it.”

“I am,” Xabi whispered, his voice cracking. “I am, Steven, please don’t push this.” The hand dropped from Xabi’s face and he opened his eyes to find Steven looking at him with a sad half-smile and glistening eyes.

“Alright. Alright, I’m sorry, you’re right. I shouldn’t have pushed, I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair and heaved a deep sigh. “I’ll drop it. Won’t mention it again, if that’s what you want.”

“That’s— that’s what I want.”

“Okay. Then we’ll forget about it, yeah? Never happened.”

“Thank you.” Steven turned away and scrubbed his hands over his face. Xabi raised a hand to his throat as though he could somehow push away the lump that had formed there, and closed his eyes against the tears he could feel building. They wouldn’t help, and might just make everything worse; Steven would hug him, try to comfort him, and Xabi didn’t know if he had it in him to push him away again. When he opened his eyes again, Steven was studying the boxes on the floor with far more interest than they warranted.

“You want a hand with the rest of this?” he asked, his voice taut with false cheeriness. Xabi barked a laugh that verged dangerously on the hysterical to his ears. Just the thought of Steven helping him pack up the remains of his life in Liverpool, acting as though everything was normal and he was just lending a hand to a teammate. It was intolerable.

“No, thank you. There’s not much left. And it’s probably not a good idea.”

“Probably.”

Xabi walked Steven to the door, and there was an awkward moment where they didn’t know whether to hug or shake hands. In the end Xabi pulled Steven into a hug, because how could he let him walk out without one? It was a long time before he was able to let go, and when he did he found himself clinging to the lapels of Steven’s jacket. He rested his forehead against Steven’s. “God, Steven. Steven.”

“Xabi, don’t. Christ. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret. And I’ll do it, Xabi, I will. I won’t say no, if you say yes.” Xabi couldn’t move. He couldn’t close the last inch between them but he couldn’t let go either. Steven’s hands wrapped around his and then they were carefully prising his fingers open, removing his coat from his grasp. “We have to go, Xabi. I have to go home to my wife and you have to go to Madrid and start a new life. And be happy, yeah?” He said the last with a wry twist of his mouth and a gentle tap against Xabi’s cheek. “I want you to be happy.”

“I want you to be, too. I want us all to be happy. That’s why I’m leaving.”

“I know. You’re right, really. I’m just selfish.” Xabi shook his head and steeled himself as Steven turned the handle and opened the door. This was the last time he would see him; God knew when their paths would cross again.

The next thing he knew Steven had taken his face in both hands and was kissing him hard, lips burning and cheeks damp. Xabi barely had time to react before he pulled away again. His breath whispered against Xabi’s lips, and then he was gone, leaving Xabi alone with his half-packed boxes.

~~

The training ground at Valdebebas was like nothing Xabi had ever seen. He had stayed in five-star hotels that seemed like Travelodges in comparison. The place reeked of money and success; everything was shiny, everything was new, everything was the best it could possibly be. It was grand and grandiose statement, though it was unclear to Xabi who the statement was intended for. Xabi liked it; it was the epitome of ‘go big or go home’, and Xabi had no intention of going home. If he ever found himself longing for the less palatial and more human-scale environs of Melwood, or even sometimes of Zubieta or La Concha beach, he quickly quashed it. Like ancient Rome, Real Madrid offered glory and honour and sanctuary to all who joined them, no matter where you came from, and all you had to do was leave behind what you were and give yourself, wholly and completely, to the Empire.

Well, Xabi had been many things; he could be _Madridista_ too. At least this time moving from one life to another hadn’t involved being shot in the head.

~~

“So, have you accepted Florentino Perez as your Lord and Saviour yet?” The Scouse accent on the other end of the line was not the one Xabi most wanted to hear, but it made him smile nonetheless.

“Of course. They don’t give you your security pass until you convert.”

“Ah, that’s how they get you, see. Next thing you know you’re giving them all your money and cutting off your family and having little aliens sucked off your body.” It took Xabi a couple of seconds to work through that one. Then he got it.

“I think that’s Scientology you’re thinking of, Carra.”

“Whatever.”

“Not that I’m not happy to hear from you, but did you need something or did you just want to give me a hard time. Because I need to be somewhere.”

“Making you late for another photoshoot, am I? What is it this time? _GQ_? _Homes and Gardens?”_

“ _Vogue_. And fuck you.”

Carra whistled. “ _Vogue_ , eh? Is a man who owns a fried egg t-shirt allowed in _Vogue_? And I’ve already told you, you’re not my type. Grow some tits and I’m yours.”

“What do you want, Carra?”

“I want you to call Stevie.” Xabi went stock-still.

“Why?”

“’Cause he’s fucking miserable, that’s why, and I’m sick of it.”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with—”

“Oh, don’t give me that, Alonso. Look, I don’t know what went off with you two before you left and I don’t care. It’s none of my business. But he’s moping around like a wet weekend in August and I don’t want to see it anymore. Torres accidentally kicked Reina in the nuts in training today and Stevie didn’t even crack a smile. That’s not right.”

Xabi sighed, ran a hand through his hair. Checked his watch. Fiddled with his keys. “I thought it would be better,” he said at last. “If I didn’t call, I mean.”

“I get that, mate, I do,” Carra said softly, or what passed for softly for Jamie Carragher. “But it’s not better. Trust me.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll call him?”

“ _Si_. Yes.”

“Great. Thanks, Xabi.” The relief was evident in his voice. “Look, sorry for sticking my nose in, but I’ve got to look out for him, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll let you go, yeah? Don’t want you to be late for your modeling. Bye.” And he hung up before Xabi had a chance to open his mouth.

~~

It took Xabi a little over a week to call Steven, and it was only partly because he was amused by the daily text messages he received from Carra which started out as _fuckin call him u prick_ and grew progressively more insulting and badly spelled as the week went on.

Nagore was out visiting a friend and had taken Jon with her. There was no reason for him to wait until Nagore was out, no reason why she couldn’t be there when he called a friend, but he waited until she was out nonetheless and didn’t ask himself why.

“Hello?”

“Steven.”

There was a long pause and then, “Xabi. Hi, how are you?”

Xabi lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. “I’m good. How are you? How are the girls? And Alex?”

“I’m fine. The girls are fine. Alex is fine. We’re all, y’know. Fine.”

“That’s good.”

“How’s Madrid?”

“Sunny.”

“Must be nice. It’s pissing down here.” Steven’s quiet laugh sounded so strained Xabi winced.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” There was a long silence. Xabi almost hung up. This was awful, this was worse than not speaking; this tense civility, polite small-talk and pretending that the last time they had spoken hadn’t been when Steven’s mouth was pressed against his. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I haven’t called either, have I? We’ve both been busy.”

“No, I mean — I’m sorry.”

“Xabi, don’t. You had to leave. I understand.”

“I’m still sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Stop it, please. Just stop. It won’t change anything.” He didn’t sound angry or bitter or anything Xabi knew he himself would be if their positions were reversed. He just sounded tired. “It’s better this way, anyway. Without you here all the time. It’s easier, it’s— it’s for the best.”

“Should I not have called? I thought a clean break was best so I didn’t, but Carra said I should and, well, I miss you. Should I have left you alone?”

“Jesus Christ, Xabi, I don’t know. Probably.” He sighed heavily. “But I’m glad you called.”

Xabi smiled for the first time since he picked up the phone. “I am too.”

~~

Ane shuffled in his arms as he readjusted the bottle in her mouth and her eyebrows twitched together in an expression so reminiscent of Nagore’s frown of disapproval that he laughed. He settled back into the cushions and returned his attention to the television, his mind only half on the match being played hundreds of kilometers away. He had thought the novelty of being a new father would be diminished the second time around, but holding his tiny daughter was just as bewildering and miraculous and impossible as holding his son had been. On-screen, a Steven Gerrard cross found absolutely no-one and a few seconds later the whistle blew. His former teammates trudged off the field, looking dejected and applauding the crowd. The camera lingered on Steven as it always did, apparently as obsessed as Xabi was with every turn of his head and movement of his lips. Balancing Ane and the bottle in one hand, he reached for his phone and sent off a commiserating text. He typed it out three times before settling on something hopelessly inadequate and impersonal. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Nagore watching him from the doorway.

“What is it with you and him?” she asked.

He looked at her, soft smile tinged with concern, worry around her eyes, and almost told her. Almost said, I have known him before, in earlier lives, before I ever knew you or dreamed of you. Sometimes we are friends and sometimes we are lovers but we are always together, always, and it seems I am eternally bound to him in a way I am not bound to you or our children and I can’t stand it.

Instead he said, “I don’t know. I don’t understand it.” That was true too.

~~

The plane was chaos, absolute chaos. The airline had given them a congratulatory cake and more alcohol than was advisable for people who had been drinking for — Xabi didn’t even know how long. He didn’t really know anything any more except they had won the World Cup and they were going home and he was very, very tired. The team were in various stages of drunk and hungover; Cesc had collapsed across Piqués lap, either asleep or passed out, Xabi couldn’t tell; Pepe and Sergio and Villa were attempting yet another conga line in the narrow confines of the aisles; Andres and Victor were talking quietly with their heads together, Xavi snoring beside them; several people were singing, at least five different songs being sung simultaneously as far as Xabi could make out.

Beside him, Fernando sat watching the mayhem with a quiet little smile. He looked happy, but very tired. Xabi nudged his shoulder. “Hey, Frodo,” he said. Fernando frowned in confusion, then his face cleared and he laughed.

“Yes, Samwise?”

“You okay?”

“Of course. We won, didn’t we?”

Xabi wanted to say something, something reassuring, something like ‘we couldn’t have done it without you’. It was a lie, but it also wasn’t, and Xabi didn’t really know how to articulate any of that. Maybe now wasn’t really the time anyway. Some of it must have shown on his face because Fernando said, “Don’t, Xabi. Not now.”

“Fine, I won’t. Just…” He took a deep breath and Fernando turned a questioning look on him. “You’ve got to pick a direction to go in. Right?”

Fernando gave him a shrewd look. “Right.” He turned his attention to the scene across the aisle where the conga line had collapsed abruptly on top of Silva. The conversation appeared to be over so Xabi settled down to watch Silva attempt to fend off the combined weight of Pepe Reina and Sergio Ramos. There was a lot of flailing and swearing from both sides. “How’s your direction working out for you?” Fernando said, his gaze fixed on the spectacle. “How’s Madrid?”

“It’s the best thing I ever did.” Fernando turned to him in surprise. “And also the worst thing I ever did.”

Fernando snorted. “Well, that’s cleared that up.”

“Leaving Liverpool was the right thing to do. But leaving—” He still couldn’t bring himself to say it. Fernando laid a hand over his and squeezed it. “I haven’t stopped being pulled in different directions. I’m just being stretched farther now.”

~~

_San Francisco was wreathed in fog as usual. Xabi could barely see out of the window and he wondered, not for the first time, why he ever bothered coming here; if he wanted fog, he could just stay in London. But Mikel had said he had information that might be useful, information that could only be shown and not put in a letter. Xabi couldn’t say no to that. He smiled at Mikel as he came back into the room, but the smile fell away as he saw what Mikel carried; an ornate tray with two pipes and two small silver lamps on it._

_“Mikel,” he began._

_“It’s fine, Xabi. Don’t worry. This will help.”_

_“I don’t want this kind of help. This isn’t what I need.”_

_Mikel shook his head with a smile. “You don’t understand. This will help you remember.” Xabi stared at him. “You want to know about previous lives, yes? This can take you there.” He indicated the tray and its dubious contents with a flourish as though it were the crown jewels. “It has to be really good though, the best possible quality. Not that rot you’ll find in Limehouse. I’m not even sure where you would get the quality you need in London.”_

_Xabi studied the contents of the tray with a trepidation he found being rapidly overtaken by curiosity and a trembling excitement. He had never been particularly interested in opiates; fornication and sodomy were more than enough vices to be getting on with. But, Steven._

_He reached out, and picked up a pipe._

Xabi blinked into the early-morning sunlight as he struggled back to full consciousness. It was difficult to remember through the sleep-haze, but he thought the dream was important. Mikel. Mikel Arteta had been in the dream. Memory. It was a memory. 19th Century San Francisco. He was pretty sure. He had known Mikel in 19th Century San Francisco. He lay still, his heart pounding, as he tried to sort through the dream, figure out if it was a true memory or one of the distorted ones that mixed up bits of different lives. It seemed real; solid and cohesive, not like the disjointed, fractured dreams his brain sometimes threw up. Mikel Arteta had been his friend in a previous life. And also apparently a drug pusher but Xabi could hardly judge him for that.

There had been lots of dreams about lots of different people, and the only constant had been Steven. But now there was Mikel. Who else was there? Beside him, Nagore shifted in her sleep and curled up closer to him. He put his arm around her, pulled her in tight, and stared at the ceiling until his alarm went off.

~~

“And when I came back there was blue all over the walls.”

“I would have thought you would know by now not to leave a small child alone with crayons, Steven.”

“Yes, yes, I should know better, as soon as they can move under their own steam you’ve got to watch them twenty five hours a day. I know. I’ve already had all this off Alex, thanks mate. But blue for fuck’s sake!”

“The colour is what you’re concerned about?”

“Of course it bloody is. What if this means she’s going to grow up to be an Everton fan?”

Xabi laughed. “ _Ai_ , Steven. I do not think you need to read any special meaning into a child scribbling on the walls with crayons.”

“But what if she does?”

“Become an Everton fan?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you will love her just the same, no?”

“I suppose. But if she thinks she’s going to be seen in public with me, she can think again.”

“She is ten months old, Steven. I do not think you need to worry just yet. Blue does not mean Everton.” Steven hummed in agreement. Xabi smiled. “It could be Chelsea.” Steven made a strangled sort of noise and Xabi cackled.

“I spoke to Fernando the other day,” Steven said a bit too casually when Xabi’s laughter had calmed down.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I asked him how you were doing and he said you guys didn’t speak that much any more.”

It was true and it had been like that for a while. He couldn’t really have said when; it happened gradually. Xabi didn’t really miss him. He had training and matches and his wife and his kids and sunshine and photoshoots and busy, busy, busy. Relationships changed and it was impossible to keep up with everyone. He packed away their friendship, every whispered conversation, every tension and resolution, in a little box labeled ‘Fernando’ and put it to one side, to be opened up only during national team call-ups. Perhaps not even then.

“I suppose we don’t, really. Grew apart, you know? It happens. Different clubs now, different countries.”

“We’re in different clubs and different countries.”

“We’re different.” There was an intake of breath and Xabi knew he was skating close to dangerous territory. “I didn’t know you two were still in touch.” Absurd as it was, the old jealousy rose up again.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we be?” Xabi didn’t answer. “Because he left?” Steven laughed quietly. “Xabi, if I didn’t speak to people who left, I wouldn’t speak to anyone at all.” Well, wasn’t that a punch in the gut. For a second, Xabi actually struggled to breathe. “Shit, Xabi, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know. I know you didn’t. It’s fine.” This was how all their phone calls went these days. They could only be relaxed and normal with each other for so long. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Xabi—”

“Bye, Steven,” Xabi said, and hung up. He stood on his balcony, staring at nothing, his chest heaving and hands shaking.

~~

_The light was dim and the ship swayed and creaked beneath them as though in a storm. “Steven,” he said. Steven looked up from the papers on his desk and smiled at him. There was something not right about this. There was no way Steven could see to write with just that one candle, yet he was working away like it was broad daylight. The cabin was wrong, too big, and since when did Steven have a desk? There was something wrong with his face, too, something subtly different; softer angles, a rounder jaw. It was a face he associated with Liverpool red, not Navy blue. The air should smell like grass and sweat, not salt and blood._

_“They’re a good crew. I’ve sailed with those who weren’t so I cherish them when I find them.”_

_“You’ve said that to me before.”_

_“You’ve got to sail with the crew you’re with, Xabi. They’re your crew, to live and die with, for as long as you’re on that ship. But nobody sails on the same ship forever.”_

_Xabi frowned. “That sounds more like something I would say.”_

_Steven just smiled at him and then went back to his work._

~~

“Welcome to Bavaria,” Pep said with a smile. Xabi opened his mouth to say ‘I’ve been here for two months now’, when he saw what Pep was pushing across the desk. He closed his mouth again. Pep laughed. “Oktoberfest is a Bayern Munich tradition. Beer and football, Xabi. What more could you want?”

“Do you normally hand out the lederhosen personally?” He picked up the bundle of clothes as though it might bite him.

“No. But I wanted to see your face.” He was watching Xabi, quietly calculating, measuring, behind his smile. “You did not disappoint. As ever.”

Xabi smiled absently as he studied the clothes in his hands, already growing used to the offhand way Guardiola dropped both praise and criticism into casual conversation. The leather was surprisingly soft; supple, more like suede. He fingered the red checked shirt he wouldn’t have been seen dead in at Madrid. There were socks, too, and something strappy he thought might be braces. There was a green felt hat sitting on top of the pile. It had a feather in it.

Beer and football. He could do that.

~~

“Xabi?” Just the way Steven said his name, two syllables uttered over hundreds of kilometres, filled Xabi with something bordering on dread. He had news. Not good news.

“Yeah?”

“I’m leaving. Liverpool, I mean. I’m leaving Liverpool.” Xabi waited for it to hurt, waited for the jolt, for the shock of Steven without Liverpool, Liverpool without Steven. But it didn’t come. He had grown too used to the other Stevens, he realised. For as long as he had known Steven as captain of Liverpool FC, he had also known him as doctor of HMS _Myrmidon_ , as businessman of dubious legality, as teacher of scared evacuees. He knew better than anyone, perhaps even Steven himself, that Liverpool was only one part of him. “Xabi? You still there?”

“Good,” he said.

“What?” Steven said, sounding both confused and outraged.

“Good. It’s good that you’re leaving. You’ve done all you can there, no one could have done more. It’s time.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “You already know all this Steven, or you wouldn’t be leaving.”

“Yeah,” Steven said heavily. “Yeah, I know.”

“Change isn’t easy.”

“It is for you.”

“No,” Xabi said, almost choking on the word. “No it isn’t.”

“You make it seem like it is.” Xabi didn’t know whether Steven meant it as an accusation or not, but it sounded like one. Felt like one.

“It’s not easy, it’s just,” he paused, trying to find a word that even came close. “Inevitable. Change is inevitable, and you can either accept it, embrace it, or fight against it.”

“You embrace it.”

“I try to. I don’t always succeed.” Steven’s answering hum sounded sceptical.

“So, I’m setting up this charity match in March. Will you come? Will you play?”

“Of course.”

~~

Xabi wanted to be able to say that the smell of the dressing room at Anfield was unique, like nowhere else on earth. But the truth was it smelled like every other dressing room he’d ever been in: deodorant, shower gel, disinfectant, and a lingering aroma of stale sweat that would never be eradicated no matter how much the cleaning staff scrubbed.

And yet, even with his eyes closed, Xabi could never mistake it for anywhere else. Dressing rooms may all smell the same, but they didn’t sound the same; they were like aural time-capsules that captured the essence of a time and place. And this one sounded like Anfield in 2008. The laughter that echoed round the room was achingly familiar; Steven and Carra and Lucas and Alvaro, Pepe’s distinctive guffaw booming above everyone, drowning them out. Then, into the lull that followed, a quiet comment from Fernando, sly and perfectly timed, followed immediately by an outraged yelp from its target — Pepe in this case, as so often — and more laughter from everyone else.

He opened his eyes and went almost dizzy from the disparity between the picture in his head and what was in front of him. Carra and Lucas and Alvaro and Pepe were all there. But so were Luis Suarez and Didier Drogba and Thierry Henry and Alberto Moreno and a herd of Liverpool young guns that Xabi didn’t even know. Steven and Fernando were directly opposite him, laughing into each other, their hands on each other’s shoulders, and Xabi had to laugh too because he still, _still_ , after everything, couldn’t stand it.

“What’s so funny?” Pepe said, dropping into the seat beside him. “And don’t say Torres, he’s a dick,” he added with a mock glare across the room. Fernando waved cheerily.

“He was right,” said Xabi, who actually had no idea what Fernando had said. Pepe grumbled something that might have been reluctant agreement. “It’s like the Twilight Zone,” he said in answer to Pepe’s question, waving a hand at the room in general.

“Weird isn’t it?” Pepe agreed. “Did you ever think you’d see John Terry in here?” Xabi shook his head. Pepe nodded towards the younger players, all sticking together and trying not to act too over-awed by the company they suddenly found themselves in. “Just think. We were that young once.” As they watched, one of them glanced sideways at Henry, only to get flustered and drop his boot when the Frenchman caught him looking and winked at him.

Across the room, Steven shook his head at Henry, smiling. ‘That was mean,’ he mouthed. Henry gave him a wide-eyed look, all innocence, and Steven laughed.

Any doubts Xabi had about the wisdom of being here suddenly evaporated.

~~

“Thanks for being here, mate,” Steven said, hot in his ear, heavy against his side.

“Where else would I be?” Xabi replied, slipping an arm around his waist. Steven beamed at him and Xabi beamed back. Steven’s hand settled on the back of his neck, his fingertips tracing clumsy patterns there. It had been a long, long time since they had been drunk together and Xabi had forgotten just how tactile Steven, who was pretty tactile to begin with, got when he was drunk. “I wanted to play with you again. I wanted to see you again.”

“Yeah.” Steven’s gaze was fixed on his mouth. “Yeah, me too mate.”

Xabi knew he was drunk, knew this was beyond stupid, knew he shouldn’t be doing it, but it was like the part of his brain that knew those things had no actual control over his body. He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to Steven’s. There was a harsh intake of breath from Steven and his hand tightened convulsively on the back of Xabi’s neck. They breathed into each other for a second, two, three, hovering on the precipice. A hand plucked at Xabi’s sleeve and then, when Xabi didn’t react, the hand took hold of his arm and pulled him away from Steven.

“Are you out of your minds?” Fernando hissed. He pushed Xabi gently and folded his arms across his chest. Beside him, Pepe shook his head at them. They stood shoulder to shoulder, effectively screening Xabi and Steven from the rest of the room.

“Probably,” Steven said, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced at Xabi. “Always have been, I reckon.” He gave Xabi a soft smile that Xabi couldn’t help returning. Pepe and Fernando groaned in unison.

“How romantic,” Fernando deadpanned.

“Yes, well, it’s not actually any of your business, is it, Fernando?” Xabi snapped.

“You kind of made it everybody’s business when you decided to slobber all over each other in public,” Pepe said as Fernando bristled.

“Perhaps we should have left you to it, let you blow your marriages apart right here in front of everyone. I saw Alex by the bar, should I bring her over to watch?”

“Enough,” Steven said in his captain’s voice, which had never once, to Xabi’s knowledge, failed to bring about total silence. “Stop it, both of you. He’s right mate,” he added to Xabi. “You know he is. That was stupid.”

Xabi sighed. “I know, I know. But…” he trailed off, staring at Steven helplessly.

“Yeah, I know. Me too.” Steven reached out and brushed his fingers over Xabi’s knuckles.

“It’s like we’re not even here,” Pepe said.

“What else is new?” Fernando said.

“ _Joder_ , right, time for drastic action.” Pepe grabbed hold of Xabi’s arm and pulled. “I’ll take this one, you take that one.” Fernando nodded and hooked his arm through Steven’s, steering him across the room to where Harry Kewell and his wife were talking to Dirk Kuyt.

“Was that really necessary?” Xabi said. Pepe stared at him, incredulous.

“Yes, since you two are apparently incapable of keeping your hands off each other without assistance. You’re lucky it was us who saw you and not, say, his wife. Or someone with a camera. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Well start. I don’t know what you two have or haven’t done, or what you’re doing, or what you’re going to do, but you can’t do it here. I can’t believe I have to tell you that.”

“When did you get so sensible?”

“I didn’t, I just seem sensible in comparison to you. That’s how far you have strayed from the path of reason.” He cuffed Xabi round the back of the head. “Idiot.” He pulled a chair out from under a nearby table and herded Xabi into it, then sat down beside him.

“You know, we haven’t really done anything,” Xabi said after a couple of minutes.

“I’m not sure I want to know this.”

“Please, Pepe. I’ve never talked to anyone about it, and I think maybe I need to.” He looked questioningly at Pepe who nodded his assent. “We kissed once, just before I left. He asked me to stay and I said I couldn’t and… he kissed me and I kissed him back and that was it. That one kiss.” Across the room he could see Steven and Fernando were alone now, heads bent together, deep in conversation. He wondered if they were having the same conversation he was having with Pepe.

“That’s all?” Pepe said, his voice ever so faintly touched with disbelief.

“That’s all. I think it would have gone further if I’d let it. I know it would. He wanted to. I wanted to. But I can’t.”

“Do you wish you had? You kind of sound like you wish you had.”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I can’t regret not cheating on my wife. I love her so much, I can’t even describe it. But yes, I wish I had. I wanted him so much, I still do. I want him all the time and it doesn’t go away. It won’t ever go away.” Pepe shifted in his seat and Xabi could see he was uncomfortable, but he made no attempt to leave or change the conversation. Xabi wanted to hug him. “He was the reason I left. Yes, there were footballing reasons to go, and the problems at the club, and they were all valid and they might have made me leave anyway. But the truth is, even if everything had been going well, even if we’d been winning everything there was to win, I would still have left. I left to get away from him, to get away from, from _this_ and it didn’t change a fucking thing.” He said it all in a rush, the words pushed out through gritted teeth. Pepe put an arm round his shoulder.

“You’ve really been bottling that up, haven’t you?”

“Fernando and I talked around the subject a few times but I’ve never actually, you know, said it.”

“You realise you still haven’t actually said it, don’t you?”

Xabi looked over at where Steven was now shaking his head and smiling ruefully at something Fernando had said. “I need a drink.”

~~

It was late when Xabi’s flight landed in Munich, and later still when he slipped quietly into his house. He headed towards the flickering light coming from the living room and smiled when he saw Nagore had fallen asleep in front of the TV, her head angled awkwardly on one of the cushions, hair spilling everywhere. He put his bag down and crouched down beside the sofa, brushing the hair from her face. “Hey,” he said as her eyes fluttered open. “You’ll get a crick in your neck.” She smiled sleepily at him.

“Hey. You just getting back?”

“Yeah. You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

“That wasn’t intentional,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I think I just fell asleep.” She eased herself up to give him space to sit down, then lay back with her head in his lap. “How was it? Did you have fun?”

“Fun? Yeah, I suppose.” Nagore rolled her eyes.

“Calm down, you’re overwhelming me with this enthusiasm.” She smiled at him and even bopped him on the nose with her finger like he was one of the kids. He shook his head and laughed.

“It’s just, fun isn’t really the word.”

“It must have been difficult. Seeing him again.”

“I’ve seen him since I left,” Xabi said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to defensive.

“Not like that.”

“Well, it was a bit weird. Everything’s the same but different. Everybody’s older and there were all these new people and—”

“Xabi.” Her voice was soft but her eyes were sharp. “You do know that I know, don’t you?”

“What?” Xabi asked, not sure if he’d heard her right over the sudden pounding in his ears.

“I know you love him,” she said, and Xabi couldn’t have stopped his sudden intake of breath or his compulsive grip on the sofa cushion if he’d tried. “It’s alright, Xabi, it’s okay, I don’t mind.”

“I— you— what?” he tried.

She laughed at that, and there was actual humour in it; no bitterness or anger at all. “I’m not saying I’m happy about it exactly. I’d prefer it if you didn’t. But you can’t control how you feel, and I know you respect me and our family too much to ever actually do anything about it.” Xabi stared at her. “This isn’t a conclusion that I’ve come to easily, I’ve been wrestling with it for a long time. But I’ve realised recently that it actually makes me feel special.”

“That makes no sense,” Xabi said. None of this made any sense. She laughed again.

“I know. But here’s the thing. Football is full of men who cheat. And wives who cheat. And there’s no reason for it really. People talk about temptation and how hard it is being away from home and all these women who throw themselves at you and it’s all bullshit. If you love your partner, if you care about them at all, not cheating on them with some random stranger should be the easiest thing in the world. But so many are incapable of resisting even the smallest temptation. The first hint of a willing body and any sense of fidelity disappears. They say ‘it doesn’t mean anything’ as if that makes it better. That makes it worse. It doesn’t mean anything but they’re still willing to risk their marriage for it? I have to wonder how much their marriage means, in that case.” She sat up and looped her arms around his neck. “And then there’s you. You who are faced with the ultimate temptation and who still won’t act on it, even though it hurts. Because you love and respect me and the vows we have taken. That’s why I feel special.”

“How do you know I haven’t acted on it?”

“Because I know you. Because I trust you. Because I’ve watched you struggle with this for years now. Because there’s a particular kind of tension between you two that wouldn’t be there if you’d ever actually fucked him.”

That shocked a laugh out of Xabi. He wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned his forehead against hers. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I know.”

Xabi laughed again, then pulled back a little. He closed his eyes, unable to look at her. “I kissed him,” he said. The arms around his neck slackened slightly but she didn’t pull away. “When I was leaving Liverpool and you were already in Madrid he came to see me and we kissed. And then this weekend. At the party after the match. We were drunk and I— I kissed him.” Her lips pressed briefly against his and her hand smoothed through his hair in the same way she comforted the kids when they were upset.

“Xabi. It’s okay. Look at me.” He opened his eyes.

“It was just momentary weakness, I swear. I would never—”

“Shh. I know, I know.” Her arms tightened around him and he buried his face in her shoulder. He was trembling and it was absurd and wrong, so wrong, so selfish, that she should be the one comforting him. “It’s alright, Xabi, I understand.”

“Can you explain it to me then?” he said shakily. She laughed quietly and they stayed like that, wrapped around each other, until they fell asleep.

~~

_The library was dimly lit, only one lamp on the corner of Xabi’s desk to light the book he was reading. He frowned and squinted at the tiny print; he was really going to have to speak to his uncle about his ‘one lamp at a time’ rule. There was being frugal and then there was this. Oil was really not that expensive._

_He tilted the book to catch as much of the light as possible and one word seemed to leap out at him: ‘Reincarnation’. His heart sped up as he read on. He was actually starting to breathe heavily, as he did when he raced the other boys at school. There was a word for it. Other people knew about it. He was not alone. It happened to others, they had Stevens of their own, pasts of their own. Nightmares of their own. Their were books about it. And if there were books about it, that meant he could learn about it. And if he could learn about it then maybe he could understand it, maybe even control or manipulate it somehow. Maybe there was a way to reconnect with people you had once known. Maybe he could find Steven._

~~

Retirement was weird. Really weird. Even a few years in, it felt weird. He had thought he would be used to it by now, and he was getting there, but the habits and rhythms of the football season were too deeply ingrained to be rid of easily. All those times when professional football had been too much, when he had longed to be back at La Concha beach, chasing a ball around just for the fun of it; and now here he was, back on that same beach, and he found himself wishing for grass under his feet instead of sand. His father’s work ethic, ingrained in him since childhood, told him he should be at training right now, not watching his children chase each other in and out of the waves. As he watched, Emma let a wave carry her into Ane, taking her big sister’s feet out from under her just like Xabi had taught her. He allowed himself a moment of fatherly pride before doing some actual parenting and intervening before someone got hurt.

“Hey,” he called. “I thought you were supposed to be bringing the ball back, not trying to kill each other.” All three of them rolled their eyes simultaneously, but Jon nonetheless waded further out to retrieve the football that was bobbing slowly but steadily away from the shore, while Emma helped Ane back to her feet. The three of them headed back up the beach towards him, laughing together, their clothes dripping. “Look at you all, you’re soaking wet,” he said, as though he hadn’t been the one to kick the ball into the water in the first place. Jon threw the ball at his head, then caught it on his chest, then the top of his foot, and took off up the beach with it, his sisters at his heels. Ignoring the twinges in his hip and his ankles, Xabi took off after them.

~~

_“Your heart is bigger than you realise. There is room for lots of people in there.”He was kneeling at Steven’s feet in the Melwood canteen, his head in Steven’s lap. Steven’s fingers played idly with his hair. The room was empty and dark, the only light coming from the open fire in the corner of the room. “I’ve told you that before.”_

_“This is different,” Xabi said._

_“Because you’re making it different. You’re making it harder than it needs to be. Like always. You don’t learn, Xabi. You never learn.” He looked up at Stevie, her bright eyes filled with affection and annoyance, the firelight flickering across her face._

_“Something’s not right here,” he said._

_“You. You’re not right here. You keep fighting this and all it does is make you miserable.” She smiled at him. “You need to change it or find a way to make peace with it.”_

_He frowned at her. “No. You didn’t say that. Someone else said that.” He laid his head back down and closed his eyes._

_“You tried changing it,” Steven said. “And it didn’t work. You couldn’t change anything. Maybe it’s time you made peace with it.”_

_“Don’t you think I’ve tried?”_

_“No. I don’t think you’ve tried at all.”_

Xabi woke up with a groan, cursing himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He really hated his subconscious sometimes. It knew him too well. He looked down at Nagore, sleeping peacefully as ever. Find a way to make peace with it. Just like that. Everything was so damn simple to the various Stevens he had known. Make peace with it.

~~

  
It was a long time before he finally figured it out. It was his birthday. Forty three years old and he finally, finally got it, finally understood what Nagore had been trying to tell him all this time, though she didn’t fully understand the context of what she was saying.  
What happened outside of this family didn’t matter. How they felt about each other, how they worked together and supported each other was the important thing. What did it matter where they came from, what lives Jon had lived before, who Ane’s fathers had been, how Emma had lived and died? They were his now, here. His to protect, his to love, his to know. He and Nagore had built a life together, and that had value in and of itself that didn’t need some higher power, some eternal match-maker, to make it important. What he had with Steven was huge and unfathomable and terrifying and instinctive and irresistible, but it didn’t diminish his feelings for Nagore; it didn’t compare to years of companionship, to the commitment they had both made. He had chosen Nagore and she had chosen him. That _mattered_ and it didn’t suddenly become meaningless because it wasn’t eternal. If anything, the fact that it hadn’t happened before and would never happen again made it more precious.

And he had been wasting it. Instead of embracing this unique experience, this unique family, he had been tying himself in knots, holding himself back. Forever tearing himself in two. Steven had a hold on him no-one else could claim, but so did the beautiful woman at his side, the young man shyly but proudly introducing his girlfriend to his mother, the two girls giggling behind their brother’s back.

Steven could wait.

~~

“Steven.”

“Xabi.”

“Guess what!”

Steven’s laughter down the phone warmed him as it had always done, but it no longer made him want to jump on a plane and take him into his arms and never let him go. Not much, anyway. “Guess what? Are we twelve?”

“Are you going to guess or do I have to tell you?”

“Well, you’re clearly dying to tell me, so why don’t you do that?”

“Jon’s going to be a father. I’m going to be a grandpa.”

“Xabi, that’s fantastic. I’m made up for you mate. It’s the best thing in the world.”

Xabi laughed. “Didn’t you say that when I told you Nagore was pregnant?”

“Yeah, I was wrong about that. This is better. All the good stuff but without having to change stinky nappies or get up at three in the morning.”

“You’re full of shit, Gerrard. You loved every second of it.”

“I remember it differently. Isn’t Jon a little young to be a dad?”

“He’s twenty seven, Steven.”

“No he isn’t,” Steven said, sounding very definite about it. Xabi laughed again.

“I think I know how old my son is.”

“Well, fuck. We’re getting old aren’t we?”

“You have four grandchildren and you’re just now deciding you feel old?”

“Well, you know me. I never was that bright. It takes me a while to catch on.”

“Whatever you say. You’ll have to come visit after the baby’s born. You need to see the best little grandchild in the world.”

“I’d love to, mate. I can come before that too. I’ll come any time you want. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“Let me look at flights and I’ll call you with the details.”

~~

He knew as soon as the phone rang and he saw Alex’s name flash up on the screen. Alex never called him. There was only one reason why she would. He was surprised, really, that it hadn’t happened before now. He didn’t think either of them had ever lived so long before. He made sure he was sitting down before he answered the call.

A car accident. Drunk driver. Going too fast, on the wrong side of the road. Over quickly. Painless. He said all the appropriate things, offered his condolences. Of course he would go to the funeral. He let the phone slip from his grasp. It shouldn’t hurt this much, he thought, gasping at the sudden tightness of his chest. This isn’t the end, this is just a break. They would see each other again, find each other again. It shouldn’t hurt this much. But it did.

~~

Xabi walked past the news crews with his head down, not stopping to talk to anyone, and slipped his sunglasses off as he stepped into the dim interior of Liverpool Cathedral. It was packed, as he had known it would be. He seethed internally at the few dignitaries and politicians he could see milling about. Like they gave a shit. He was about to slip quietly into a pew near the back when he saw a pair of familiar figures up ahead and changed direction. “Budge up,” he said when he reached them. Fernando looked at him and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, look who it is,” Pepe said. “We thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth.” He made no attempt to make space for Xabi to sit down.

“Pepe, for god’s sake. This is a funeral. Can you not be you for five minutes and let me sit down.” Pepe grinned at him and shuffled along the bench. Fernando did the same, and Xabi dropped into the seat beside him.

“I see your face caught up with your hair,” Xabi said to Pepe, who just shook his head at him. He looked old. Older than he was, with the bald head. This funeral was the first of many, he realised. Before he knew it, everyone he had chased around a green field with, vigorous and timeless, would be gone. It seemed to have happened quickly. Surely it was only a week ago, a month ago, a year ago, that they had joked around in training together, gone to the pub together, fought and bled and cried together. And yet here they were. Joking around again, trying to ignore for just a few more minutes the reason they had been brought together again, pretending they couldn’t hear the strain in each other’s quiet voices. Pepe looked old, even Fernando finally looked his age, the wrinkles and grey hairs sitting incongruously alongside his freckles. They’d always joked that when Fernando was fifty he would still look twenty five, still be El Niño. Apparently they were wrong about that.

He glanced around, looking for other familiar faces. Everyone Steven had ever played with had turned out: people that were only vaguely familiar from watching Steven in his MLS days, whose names he didn’t know. People who had become unfamiliar with time; Lampard and Terry and Owen almost unrecognisable. People who he would know anywhere, even if a hundred years passed by. If Fernando looked his age now then Beckham looked old. Really old. It made Xabi shiver. Alex sat at the front with her daughters, Steven’s daughters, seeming small in a way Xabi had never imagined she could be. He couldn’t see Carra anywhere and for a moment he panicked, wondering if something had happened to him and he hadn’t heard about it. Then he realised: he was with Steven. Steven wasn’t here yet, but he would be here soon, carried in by those who loved him, as he had always carried them.

He had never done this before. This was the fourth time his Steven had died, but he had never had to deal with this. He closed his eyes and prayed for strength.

~~

Xabi leaned over the balustrade and took in the sea of red outside the cathedral. It stretched down the road. Flowers heaped upon flowers, candles everywhere, scarves tied to lamp-posts and street signs. Shirts hung from railings, not all of them red; some were white. Those were mostly England shirts, but here and there was the odd LA Galaxy jersey which made Xabi smile; they would follow him anywhere. One shirt in particular caught his eye — it had a turn of the millennium look about it, all long baggy sleeves and turned-down collar. Old, probably hard to get hold of now. Rare, valuable. But someone had offered it in tribute all the same.

The fire-door opened and closed quietly behind him. Fernando joined him at the rail. “Have you been up to Anfield yet?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

“No. I saw the pictures.”

“It’s like…” Fernando held his hands out to the scene before them, then extended his arms out to indicate something bigger. “I have never seen anything like it.”

Xabi glanced at Fernando, at the wrinkles and lines and greying temples, and looked back out at the sight of a city pouring its heart out. “This is what they'll do for you,” he decided. Fernando turned a sceptical look on him. “Not here, you idiot. In Madrid. Atlético.” Fernando smiled and ducked his head and for a second he was twenty two again. “Oceans of red and white as far as the eye can see. Hordes of weeping _Colchoneros_ , tearing their hair and rending their garments,” Xabi teased. Fernando just elbowed him in the ribs. “I don’t think anyone’s ever loved me like that. Except my wife and kids.” It didn’t bother him as it once might have done. That kind of love was only worth something if you could return it.

“He did,” Fernando said quietly, his eyes fixed on something on the other side of the road. “He loved you like that.”

Xabi followed his gaze to an England flag someone had tied to a tree branch; the wind had caught it and it billowed like a sail, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ written proudly over the red of the cross in black marker. “I know.”

~~

It was cold on the beach, the wind wily and determined, finding its inevitable way through Xabi’s coat and scarf. He could almost be in England. He turned his feet back towards home and walked slowly, pain flaring in his hip with every step. It had been a mistake to walk so far. But he had made worse mistakes than that and lived with them; he would live with this one too. He couldn’t wait for the operation, to be rid of the pain and stiffness at least for a few more years. He had known there would be a price to pay for years as an elite athlete, he just hadn’t realised it would hurt quite this much. He was going to be a grandfather soon and he wanted to be the cool grandpa who took the kid swimming and played football, not the grandpa who sat in a chair with slippers and a blanket and told stories about his glory days. Not yet. He pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked so he could call Nagore and let her know he’d be late but there was no signal. He shook his head. It was 2034 and he still couldn’t get a damn signal on his phone at the beach.

The cold wind made it hard to breathe, his throat burning and his chest tight. It took a few seconds for him to realise that his chest was too tight for it to be only due to cold, it was just too hard to breathe. The tightness in his chest became a crushing pain that spread quickly. He grabbed his arm and fell to his knees and tried not to panic. It was too early, surely he was too young. Like Steven was too young, and the thought of Steven calmed him a little. He would see Steven again, they would be together again, they would be free.

But it was too soon. He and Steven had eternity it seemed but there was still so much he had to do in this life, so much he wanted to make up for. He had so many people he wanted to call, visit, reconnect with, make amends to. And Nagore and the kids, they still had so much to do, there was so much of their lives he was never going to see, he was never going to meet his grandchild and he wanted to scream with the unfairness of it all, but he couldn't catch his breath and it was too late, too late, too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry. On the off-chance that Xabi or Stevie (or anyone associated with them) are ever crazy enough to go looking for fic of themselves and they manage to read this far, I hope you live to be 103 and have herds of grandchildren and great-grandchildren and are happy and successful and have everything you could possibly want. And sorry for dragging your families into this.
> 
> No historical notes for this one, but I will say that in a lot of ways writing about the more distant past is easier than writing about ten years ago. It's a lot harder to remember what the internet was like in 2004 than it is to google 'opium dens in 19th century London'.


	5. Xabi's New Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know how long it's been since the last chapter, I'm so sorry. What can I say, this stuff's hard to write. Anyway, here it is at last: the happy ending I've been promising.
> 
> At one point I was thinking about setting this chapter in a Martian colony but a) that's a hell of a lot of research, and b) the idea of Stevie the Manc was too funny to me. In a story where he has been hanged, shot, and locked in an asylum, this is probably the worst thing I've done to him. Sorry Stevie.

_Manchester, 2145_

Stevie’s feet dragged only slightly as he walked towards the staff room to start the new school year. Much as he hated dealing with any aspect of teaching that wasn’t the actual being a teacher part, he was curious about the new Head. He had heard things. They had all heard things. Progressive, they said, in varying tones from wary to contemptuous to excited. Though what they meant by progressive was anyone’s guess. Compared to the out-going Theaker, who had wanted to separate the school by gender and bring back corporal punishment, anyone would seem progressive. But apparently she was bringing a music teacher, something the school hadn’t had for over seventy years. Steven hoped this meant she would be amenable to some of his own ideas, all of which Theaker had greeted with a glare and an ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, Mr Gerrard’. If nothing else, he hoped he would be able to talk to this one without the conversation carrying a vaguely threatening undertone, like he was about to be fired for wanting to take a bunch of fifteen year olds to a museum.

The staff room fell silent when he pushed the door open and every head turned to look in his direction. Then there was a collective sigh of disappointment and everyone resumed their chatter. Stevie stood in the doorway, bemused.

“What the hell was that?”

“Language, Steven,” Claire admonished from her usual station by the kettle. He moved over to her. “We thought you were the new Head,” she added as she poured water into a mug. “Do you still take two sugars?” He nodded and she pulled a face. He laughed.

“Thanks, Claire,” he said, taking the tea from her and studying the mug, which was entirely chip-free, stain-free and didn’t look like it could injure him or poison him in any way.

“New Head, new mugs,” Claire said.

“Good start,” Stevie said, sipping his tea. “Perfect as always.”

“I don’t want your flattery, Stevie. You know what I want.” Stevie shook his head. Claire’s self-appointed role as hot beverage provider was motivated partly by altruism but mostly by an insatiable need for gossip. So far, only Stevie, his boss Angela, and Joe from Physics, were onto her. Everybody else thought she was ‘that lovely Claire from Maths’. And they happily told her everything.

“Congratulations on your promotion, by the way,” he said.

“That wasn’t what I wanted either, but thank you. You know Angie’s retiring at the end of this year?” He nodded. She had called him during the holidays to tell him. “I think you’d make a good Head of History. You could keep me company during all those boring Head of Department meetings.”

“How do you know they’re boring? You haven’t been to any yet.”

“I took a wild guess.”

The room fell silent around them and they turned round to find the door had opened without them noticing. Two strangers stood there: a woman who was presumably the new Head, and who Stevie barely noticed because his gaze had fixed itself on the man standing beside her. He had one hand stuck in his trouser pocket and his shirt hung out from the bottom of his jumper in a way that would have given Theaker an aneurysm; if it hadn’t been for the beard and the laughter lines round his eyes and the air of laid-back confidence, he could have been one of Stevie’s Sixth Formers.

Stevie felt the breath catch in the back of his throat.

He was dimly aware that the woman was speaking, but he couldn’t hear a word she was saying for the pounding in his ears. Claire prodded him, then nudged him in the ribs when he didn’t respond. “Close your mouth, you idiot,” she whispered.

“What?”

“He’s about to look your way, do you really want to be gawping like a fish when he does?” Stevie snapped his mouth shut just in time as the man, who had been looking curiously around the room, turned to him. Stevie could see the moment his idle curiosity turned to something else, something Stevie had never seen, though he suspected he would see it if he looked in a mirror right now. It was gone in a second, smoothed over into polite indifference as the man continued to inspect his new workplace. His eyes kept darting back to Stevie, though, and his hand was fidgeting in his pocket.

“Steven,” Claire hissed. “Pay attention.” With some difficulty, Stevie dragged himself back to something like professionalism and turned his attention to the woman who was now in charge of all their lives. Whose name, Stevie realised, he still didn’t know, and who had almost certainly introduced herself when she came in but he had been too busy staring at what was presumably the new music teacher.

“I’ll keep this brief, I know you have prep to do before the hordes descend on us next week. I know my predecessor was a little, shall we say, old-fashioned, and I know you’ve probably heard all sorts of things about me. I won’t deny that we have very different approaches and philosophies and that will mean there will be changes around here, but I hope we can make those changes together rather than me imposing them on you. Change can be a good thing. I want to chat to you all individually about my plans for the school and also to find out about what you want as well, so my secretary will be dragging you away from your work to come to my office throughout the day. And that’s it, for now. I look forward to working with you all.” There was an expectant pause from the staff, followed by a polite cough from the music teacher. The Head laughed. “Oh my goodness, I completely forgot. I know Xabi will forgive me, I hope you all will too. This is Xabi Alonso. As I’m sure you’re all aware, I am introducing music to the curriculum this year and Xabi will be our music teacher. Xabi,” she said, turning to him and gesturing to the room. “Your new colleagues.”

Xabi nodded to them all. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” he said, clearly holding back laughter. The sound, that Stevie had never heard in his life before, was somehow instantly familiar and soothing. “I look forward to getting to know you all.” His eyes lingered on Stevie, and something prickled in Stevie’s chest. He couldn’t look away. If the building were on fire, he wouldn’t have been able to look away.

“What was that?” Claire said. She prodded him again. “Steven.” He turned to her and realised she was speaking at her normal volume, that the silence in the room had dissolved into chatter. He turned back to the music teacher — to Xabi — and the Head, to find the Head disappearing through the door with Angie, and Xabi being dragged into conversation with William from Biology, the most boring man in the world. “Stevie. You and the new guy. What was that?”

“I— I don’t know.”

“Well,” she said, shoving him gently in the back. “Why don’t you go and rescue him from William and find out?”

He made his way across to them, his head suddenly an empty, cavernous space where previously it had contained things like ‘how to string a sentence together’ and ‘things you can say to people’. Fortunately, he was saved by William’s complete inability to ever stop talking. “Ah, Stevie. Good man. How was your summer? I was just telling out latest recruit here about my newts. I got some new ones, you know.” Stevie nodded. Xabi was close enough to touch, if he wanted to, if that wasn’t a really weird thing to do with someone you haven’t even been introduced to yet. He kept his hands firmly by his side.

“Actually, William, sorry for interrupting. I wanted to speak to Xabi for a second. I had some ideas about, um, about working some history of music stuff into my classes,” he said, struck by blessed inspiration at the very last minute. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not, of course not. You go right ahead. I’ll go and chat to Claire. I could do with a cuppa.”

Stevie snickered. “I’m sure she’d love that.”

“Thanks for that,” Xabi said as William wandered off. “He seems nice but newts are not really my thing.”

“I don’t think they’re anybody’s thing. Lovely bloke, and each to their own, but he doesn’t seem to get that other people just aren’t that into newts.”

Xabi laughed, and that thing prickled in Stevie’s chest again. “I can’t really judge him, I collect old music in obsolete formats. Everyone’s got their quirks.”

“Really? That sounds interesting actually.”

“Yeah? My ex-boyfriend hated it. Drove him mad. I think that might be why we broke up.”

“Well. More fool him, then.” And with that, Stevie’s inspiration dried up again.

“Your friend doesn’t look too happy with you,” Xabi said, just as the silence was starting to get awkward. Stevie glanced behind him to where Claire was alternately smiling fixedly at William and shooting death glares at Stevie over William’s shoulder.

“She’ll get over it,” he said, laughing. “That’s Claire by the way. You’ll probably get to know her quite well, everyone does. Whether they want to or not. Oh, and I’m Stevie.” He stuck his hand out and hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Steven Gerrard.” Xabi smiled and took his hand. It was warm and dry and Stevie thought he could feel callouses on his fingers.

“Xabi Alonso. Pleasure to meet you.”

~~

The new nameplate on the Head Teacher’s door read ‘Karen Smith’ and Stevie heaved a sigh of relief. At least now he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself by asking anyone for her name. The door was ajar and he knocked on it as he pushed it open, hoping that this was the correct etiquette. Karen looked up from the box she was unpacking and smiled as he came in, so he seemed to be on safe ground. “Steven, come in. Excuse the mess,” she said, waving her hand at the boxes scattered around the room. “It’s going to take me a while to get settled. Have a seat.” She frowned as they sat down either side of the desk. “Is it Steven? Or do you prefer Steve? or something else?”

“Uh, most people call me Stevie,” he said.

“Stevie it is then.” She pulled a thick, slightly tatty beige file from a pile beside her and flicked it open. “Mr Theaker, you may or may not be aware, kept copious notes on all his staff and he has generously left them for me.” Stevie had not been aware of this, and if he had been he would not have entered this meeting with quite so much optimism. He nodded glumly. “I gather the two of you did not see eye to eye, and his notes certainly reflect that. Reading between the lines, I understand you wish there to be more variety and flexibility in the curriculum, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And to take the pupils out on more trips.”

“Well, any trips at all, really. Theaker — um, Mr Theaker — believed that teaching belonged solely in the classroom and that everything pupils need to know comes out of government-approved textbooks.”

“Yes,” she said, scanning the file again. “Yes, I see that. You disagree?”

“Yes,” Steven said, shifting in his seat when she motioned for him to elaborate. “Obviously classroom teaching is important. Essential. And so are books, depending on what’s in them.” Karen shot him a look at that but didn’t interrupt, so he continued. “There are things that can’t be learned from books. History is all around us, in the streets and fields and buildings. We walk through it every day. It’s in our language, in our names. It’s not just about Kings and Queens and memorising dates. In fact it’s not about those things at all. I know I need to get these kids through their exams, and to do that they’re going to have to memorise a lot of kings and queens and dates, but it’s far easier to do that if they really understand history, if they’re excited about it, if they care. And to do that you have to get them out there and show them something new about the things they think they know. We need to teach them how to think — no one wants to teach them how to think.” He twisted his hands in his lap and glanced up; it had been a long time since he had been allowed to let his mouth run away with him on his favourite topic, particularly in this room. Karen was looking at him thoughtfully.

“I take it we’re not just talking about a visit to a museum once a year?”

“Well, that could be part of it. But ideally what I’d like is for one lesson a term or even a month, one lesson a week for the older kids, to be spent out of school. We wouldn’t have to go far, there’s lots to see around here. We’re surrounded by ruins and these kids drive past them every day, but they don’t really know what they mean, how they got there. What it means for them, for their past, for their future. We wouldn’t need to hire coaches or anything, a small group with two or three teachers could go on the bus. And we could get permissions from parents that cover a whole year.”

“You’ve thought this through,” she said. She was smiling. He nodded. “Where would you want to go first?”

“Old Trafford.”

“You’re a football fan.”

“Actually, no. But it’s important.”

She nodded. “I think you’re right. And you may not be a football fan, but most of the kids probably are. It will be easier to get them interested in that than a bombed out 19th century cotton factory.”

“Does that mean I can do it?” She nodded again and Stevie had to restrain himself from jumping out of his seat.

“We will start with the Sixth Formers, I think, and see how it goes with them. If it works well this term, we can extend it to the rest of your classes. And we’ll talk to the other members of the History department and get them on board. It wouldn’t be fair for some of the pupils to get the advantage of this and not others.”

“I’ve spoken to Angela Ansari about this before. I think she likes the idea.”

Karen nodded. “You know she’s retiring at the end of the year? We’re going to need a new Head of History.”

“I know, she told me.”

“Have you considered applying for the post? It’s more money,” she added when he hesitated.

“It’s also more paperwork and less teaching.”

“Tell me about it,” Karen said, indicating the array of boxes and files around her.

“What did you teach?” he asked. She smiled and he already knew the answer before she spoke.

“History.”

~~

The sound of the piano floated down the unfamiliar corridor, seeming to fill every nook and cranny so that Stevie couldn’t tell where it was coming from. This part of the school had been shut up for years and it had the dusty, damp smell to prove it. Originally the music block, it had at times been used for storage, commandeered variously by the Geography and Language departments, and Stevie believed it had once housed refugees, though of course the records from that period were sketchy at best so it was hard to be sure. Now Karen had opened it up for Xabi, and Stevie wondered how on earth he was going to get an entire department up and running by himself.

He found him in a large classroom about halfway down the corridor, seated at a battered upright piano. Stevie thought he recognised the piece he was playing; something floating and melancholic that suited the abandoned air of the music block rather well. As the piece ended Xabi glanced up at Stevie watching him from the doorway, quirked a smile at him, then began something else. This one had lyrics. Xabi’s voice was rich and a little husky and it made every hair on Stevie’s body stand on end. Stevie found himself shutting the door and moving further into the classroom as Xabi sang. There was a heavy silence after the song had finished. Stevie cleared his throat.

“If you think you’re coming into my classroom and singing about worshiping clinging trousers, you can think again. I want to keep my job, thanks.”

“You were serious about the history of music thing? I thought that was just to get rid of Mr Newts.” Xabi carefully lowered the lid of the piano and stood up.

“William. Yeah, it was. But I’ve been thinking about it and I actually think it’s a good idea.”

“Is that why you’ve braved the wilds of the music block to find me?”

“Partly. I also wanted to ask you a favour, but now I think about it you probably don’t have time. Not if you have to teach music to the entire school by yourself.”

“I don’t. Music is going to be optional until we can get the programme going properly and get some more staff in and I doubt we’ll get the entire school signing up. So I may well be able to do you a favour.”

“What was that?” Stevie asked, indicating the piano. “That was something old, right?”

Xabi nodded. “Twentieth century. It’s called _Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered_.”

“And you just happened to pick that to sing when you saw me watching you,” Stevie said. He had no idea what he was doing or why he was doing it, but Xabi’s slow smile gave him an inkling of an answer.

“It’s a good song, don’t you think?”

“It’s— It’s about sex.”

Xabi gave a surprised laugh. “Yes, it is. Does that bother you?”

“It’s not something I’m used to hearing.”

“You hear it all the time. Or do you not listen to the lyrics of the music you hear on the radio?”

“It’s never as blatant as that.”

“That’s true. Things were a lot more open then than now, even in the period that song was written. But you should know that. You’re the historian, not me,” Xabi said, with a twinkle in his eye that made Stevie wonder if he was being mocked. Or perhaps he was mocking himself. Stevie couldn’t tell, couldn’t fathom Alonso at all. But he found he very much wanted to; wanted to know the meaning behind every smile and glance, every duck of the head.

“I’ve always liked twentieth century music,” he offered. “What I’ve heard, anyway. I always found it weirdly comforting. Familiar.”

“Funny. I’ve always felt like that about it too.”

“There’s one — I only heard it once, years ago, but I get it stuck in my head. It’s like—” He hummed the bit that had stayed with him most clearly, aware that his voice wasn’t good, that he was off-key, that it didn’t sound anything like it should. But Xabi’s eyes lit up and he stepped back to the piano and flipped the lid open.

“This?” he asked. He played the refrain simply, one-handed, and for a second Stevie was twelve years old again, trailing around dusty antique shops with his dad; old music and old objects and old stories.

“Yeah. That’s it, yeah.”

“It’s called Clocks. It’s actually early twenty first century. I think. It’s hard to be sure. But turn of the millennium, certainly.” Stevie nodded, filing the information away for future searching, now he had something to work with. “What was the favour you wanted to ask me?” Xabi asked, closing the lid again.

“Oh. I’m planning a few field trips and I need teachers to be chaperones. Wondered if you’d like to help.”

Xabi cocked his head. “Why are you asking me?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I thought you might say yes.”

Xabi smiled and looked down at his feet. If it wasn’t completely at odds with everything he had seen of the man so far, Stevie would have supposed he’d gone shy. He flicked his eyes back up at Stevie and it sent something warm curling right down to his toes. “I suppose you might be right.”

~~

Stevie had been eight years old when his father started taking him around the old football stadiums. Instead of starting at home as Stevie had expected, they had got on the train to Leeds to visit what remained of Elland Road. There wasn’t much to see; lots of holes in the ground, a few stumps of concrete pillars. Nature had started to reclaim it, lots of tough, hardy-looking shrubs struggling up through the cracks, grasses and wildflowers creeping down from the embankment of the motorway onto what had once been the car park. A large, battered crest that probably once hung above the entrance was propped up against a tree. The thing that struck Stevie were the protesters — far more of them here than he had ever seen while driving past Old Trafford or Eastlands. “What do they want, Dad?” He had never asked before. The protesters were just always there, a fact of life. He’d never really thought about them.

His dad shrugged. “They all want different things. Most of this lot are probably unhappy about the local council’s plans to build houses here.” A dog darted across the wasteland in front of them, startling birds from the shrubbery and protesters from their huddles. Litter blew in from the empty industrial estate on their right, skittered across the open ground, and disappeared into the derelict houses to their left. Above them the motorway rumbled endlessly, oddly muffled down in the strange in-between world with the strange in-between people.

“I think houses would be better,” Stevie said.

“There’s a lot would agree with you. And they’re probably right. But you see that old lady there?” He pointed to a cluster of protesters where an old woman sat on a fold-out chair, her coat tight around her, a blue and yellow wool hat pulled low over her forehead. She looked as old as the ruin. “She probably remembers singing in the stands here, being picked up by her dad like I pick you up, so you can see. And she probably remembers being woken up in the middle of the night by the explosions. Remembers getting up in the morning and seeing it on the news. And there’s people like her all over the country. They want things back to how it was. Before. They want to put these things back to prove that you can’t take them away.”

“But most of these people aren’t that old. They probably weren’t even born then. And they’ve got Headingley now. Why do they care?”

“Because they’re mental, son,” his dad said, managing to sound both derisive and fond. “And because they believe in something.”

Their tour took weeks and was completely random. Stevie never figured out what made his dad choose a particular city to visit on any given weekend. They had been up to Newcastle and down to Derby and Nottingham and Sheffield before they got to what was right on their doorstep. Eastlands was, well, the same as Elland Road and St James’ Park and Bramall Lane and every other wrecked and ruined place in the north of England. Stevie was pretty numb to them by then. He preferred the ones that had been turned into something, that had moved on.

Old Trafford was different, but not for the reasons Stevie would have expected. He had seen it from a distance but had never got up close. There was more left of it than most places they had been to, much of its steel framework still standing. It loomed over him, unfriendly and uninviting; it was not the feeling he had expected to get from what his grandad referred to as ‘the old homestead’. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t understand it, but craning his head back to look at the bent and twisted metal, every bit of his body seemed to rebel against being there. Something deep in the pit of him said: you don’t belong here. He tugged at his dad’s sleeve, nagging and nagging until his dad gave up and they went home.

The following week they went to Liverpool. Goodison Park was one of the few that had been rebuilt on the original site so they went to the museum, but it had little to interest an eight year old. At Anfield there was almost nothing, just an open green field with a pair of wrought iron gates at one end, You’ll Never Walk Alone cast in gold above them. It was a warm summer’s day, a clear blue sky overhead and acres of smooth green grass at their feet. It would have been peaceful and quite beautiful but for the way the ground seemed to tilt and something opened up in Stevie, hollow and void and aching. For a moment, he struggled to speak. “Dad, can we go?”

“We only just got here, Stevie.” His dad took a deep breath and looked around. “You know it pains me to say anything good about this lot, but I like what they’ve done here.”

“Dad.” It was all Stevie managed before he was doubling over and throwing up on the grass.

The following week was the first match of the season, and something had changed. Somehow, Stevie knew, it had changed for good. He stood in the midst of the New Trafford crowd and rather than being buoyed up by the tide of red, he felt pulled down. This was no longer a place to belong, to feel safe. He was lost in his own home.

It took him the entire season to work up the nerve to tell his dad that he didn’t want to go to football anymore, but when he did his dad didn’t look surprised. He didn’t try to talk him out of it or tell him he’d come round. He just hugged him and said, “yeah, alright son.”

He never went back.

~~

“Alright you lot, gather round,” Stevie called to his Sixth Formers, waving his arms to get their attention. He was aware of Xabi’s eyes on him and he tried to block him out. He had had this speech planned for years and Alonso wasn’t going to make him fumble it now. “Take a good look around you,” he said, indicating the twisted metal structure of what remained of Old Trafford. “Then I want you to close your eyes.” There was some muttering and shuffling of feet at this. “Just do it.”

“You are still going to be here when we open them again, aren’t you Mr Gerrard?” Xabi said. The kids tittered. Three weeks into the new term and the kids already thought Mr Alonso was the best thing that had ever happened at their school. Stevie, who had previously been the best thing that had ever happened at their school, would have been jealous were it not for the fact that he agreed with them.

“Don’t worry Mr Alonso, I won’t drive off and abandon you here. No matter how tempting that may be.” Xabi grinned and Stevie cursed himself for the way it made his heart stutter. The kids, used to Mr Gerrard’s unorthodox methods, did as they were told. Xabi followed suit. “Now, I want you to picture standing here eighty years ago. It’s match day, full capacity. Derby day, maybe. The sound of the crowd, the feel of it. The camaraderie, the buzz. The tension and adrenaline at kick-off, the euphoria of victory, the tired ache of defeat. Those of you who are sport fans will probably find this easy. The rest of you will have to rely on your imaginations, sorry. Now imagine you’re at home in your bed, fast asleep, when something wakes you. You’re not sure what it is at first, but then you hear it — loud and deep, but distant, like thunder. You think that’s maybe what it is at first, but it goes on and on and you realise it can’t be. Then it stops, and you wait for something to happen. But there’s nothing but the faint sound of sirens and eventually you fall back asleep. In the morning you get up and turn on the TV, and that’s when you find out what it was. No one knows who or why, but someone has blown up hundreds of buildings during the night. Big, small. Stadiums, arenas, churches, mosques, community centres — anywhere that people gather, where people come together, where people feel safe or a part of something. Not to kill, but to take away something more permanent than life. To take away part of our history, part of our culture.” Stevie’s voice died away. Xabi had opened his eyes and was staring straight at him; Stevie held his gaze. The kids slowly blinked their eyes open, some of them looking slightly dazed.

Stevie dragged his eyes away from Xabi. “Do you all understand why I’ve brought you out here? I could just as well have had you imagine match day in the classroom.” The kids exchanged glances and one by one shook their heads. “Partly, I think you’ve all spent more than enough time in the classroom.” There were couple of cheers at this, quickly shushed. Stevie ignored them. “But mostly, I wanted you to look at this place that you are all so familiar with and _see_ it. See what it means, what it was, what it is. History isn’t a list of dates in a data file, it isn’t distant things happening to distant people. History is your lives, your past, your futures. History is listening to you grandparents’ stories, history is walking through the streets, history is being part of something that has existed for centuries, history is governments making decisions that affect millions of people, history is going about your daily life and suddenly having a part of it ripped away. History is about people, history is about life. I want you to understand that.” The kids nodded solemnly, each of them suddenly seventeen going on seventy.

Amir Cooke raised his hand. “Sir? Is this going to be in our exams?”

“No. It’s just something you ought to think about. Something you ought to have been taught a long time ago.”

“But Sir, shouldn’t we be learning about the things we’re going to be tested on?”

“Amir, everything you’ve ever been taught since you were four years old is something you’re going to be tested on. I think you can spend one afternoon on things that have value beyond what mark the exam board gives you. I know you have exams this year and they’re important. But taking time to consider things from a new perspective can only enhance your learning.” Cooke still looked disgruntled but didn’t object further. Stevie decided to consider this battle won. “Okay. Wander round the ruins, look at the memorial, visit the museum. Think about what I’ve said, about what it means, about the people who used to stand here, right where you’re standing now. Do not under any circumstances leave the grounds, and nobody should be on their own. We all meet back here in two hours.” The kids scattered and Xabi came over to him.

“I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that.”

“Well, I feel pretty strongly about this stuff.”

“I see that.” Xabi’s voice was light but his eyes were still intent. “I didn’t think you were a football fan. You’ve never talked about it.”

“I’m not, really. Not any more.”

“Why here? Isn’t Eastlands closer to the school?”

“My dad would’ve killed me.”

Xabi laughed. “Fair enough.” He looked around the park, craning his head to look at the metal frame above them, much as Stevie had done as a child. “You know,” he said. “For some reason, I’ve never liked it here.”

~~

_Nobody ever claimed responsibility for the worldwide attacks on community buildings. Following the cyber attacks of a few years later, many blamed China, though the Chinese government denied any involvement in any of the physical or digital attacks. The most likely culprit is a secret evil consortium, interested in stirring up trouble for power and money not ideology…_ Stephen put down Amanda Goldman’s essay with a sigh, then picked up his red pen to point out that, though no historian could be completely free of subjectivity and bias, that didn’t mean you should abandon objectivity altogether and start throwing around words like ‘evil’, particularly in essays that would eventually be read by an invigilator and count for twenty percent of your final mark.

A knock at the door made him raise his head and he saw with surprise that it was already dark outside. He rubbed the back of his neck and pressed his fingers into his spine to work out the kink that had settled there, smiling ruefully at Xabi in the doorway.

“Do you live here or something?” Xabi said.

“You’re still here.”

“I’m the new boy, I have to make a good impression. And besides, I have a shit-load of work to do.

“So do I.” Stevie waved a hand at the pile of essays in front of him. “And Karen already knows you, so you don’t need to make a good impression.”

“Maybe it’s not her I want to make a good impression on.” There was a silence that was in very great danger of becoming awkward before Xabi rescued it. “Come for a drink with me.”

Stevie’s hesitation lasted as long as it took for him to register Xabi’s steady gaze on him and the way he fiddled with his watch. “Okay. Sounds good.”

A smile broke across Xabi’s face. “You’ll have to tell me where though. I don’t know any of the pubs around here.”

“I know a place.”

The pub was old fashioned and a bit grubby, but the beer was good, the people were friendly, and you could always get a quiet table tucked away in a corner, away from the darts and the TV, if you wanted to, for example, get cozy with a work colleague you probably shouldn’t get cozy with.

“So,” said Stevie, after they had settled into their seats with their drinks and Xabi had taken an approving look around the pub. “I’ve been hearing things about you.” He hadn’t meant to bring it up, it had just sort of come out.

Xabi raised an eyebrow but didn’t look surprised. “Oh yes?”

Stevie took a deep breath. He’d started this, there was no backing out now. “They say you were fired from your last job. For having an affair. With a married man.” This was not how he had imagined the relaxed getting-to-know-you drinks going. They hadn’t been here five minutes.

“They say that, do they?”

“Are they right?”

“Would it bother you if they were?”

Stevie, who had assumed the answer to that was automatic, hesitated. He wouldn’t have done a few weeks ago, but looking at Xabi now, he didn’t know the answer. It should bother him. It should. “It would depend on the circumstances, I suppose.”

“Okay. The circumstances were these,” Xabi said, and Stevie’s heart rate picked up when he realised that Xabi wasn’t denying it. “Simon and his husband were separated, in the process of getting divorced. We met. We fell in love. I don’t know if you’ve ever known anyone trying to get a divorce but they take for fucking ever. It’s practically impossible and it drags on and on. We wanted to get married but obviously couldn’t while Simon was still technically married to someone else. So we just moved in together. About six months later the school found out. I still don’t know how. I suppose someone who doesn’t like me must have seen us or something. Anyway, living with someone outside of wedlock makes me unfit to teach children in case I corrupt them with my degenerate ways. So I was asked to leave.”

There was a long pause. “You know, I reckon you were screwed either way,” Stevie said at last. “Even if you had got married before you moved in together — marrying a divorced man? Plenty of places wouldn’t approve of that either.”

“So it doesn’t bother you then?”

“The thought of you marrying someone else bothers me.” Stevie pressed his lips together, as though that could somehow prevent words from continuing to fall out of their own accord.

“Someone else? You mean, someone other than you?”

“That’s not what I—,” Stevie stopped. He couldn’t finish the sentence. Because he had meant it. He knew it. Xabi knew it. “This is stupid,” he muttered. “We barely know each other.”

“I know,” Xabi said with an incredulous laugh. “I know. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“I should be shocked, shouldn’t I? I should be horrified about your scandalous past.”

“You’re not?”

“No. You know, I think you could have told me that you’d killed a man and I’d still want to be sitting here with you.”

Xabi swallowed hard; Stevie could see his Adam’s apple bob with the movement. “I loved him, you know.” Stevie felt something tear at him, deep in his chest, in his stomach. “People talk about us like we’re somehow depraved for not having all the right pieces of paper before we started trying to have a life together. But we loved each other. Or, we thought we did. It wasn’t enough to keep us together through all that shit. All my life I felt like I was waiting for something, missing something. I thought it was him. Now I know it’s not.”

~~

Xabi’s apartment was less of an apartment and more of an archive. “I did warn you,” Xabi said, laughing as Stevie’s mouth fell open.

“You said you collected old music, you didn’t say you lived in a museum.” He couldn’t even see the furniture at first, then realised it was interspersed between all the cabinets and boxes which were arranged like walls in the open space; the living area was defined by racks of vinyl records; a small study with a desk and a wall of bookshelves had been created from several antique chests of drawers of the sort 20th Century libraries had used to store their card catalogues; what appeared to be a corridor leading to the open door of a bedroom was actually shelving, holding row after row of slim plastic boxes — CDs, he realised after a moment of wracking his brain; in one corner, further shelving, filled with devices and wires Stevie didn’t recognise, formed a square within which were a variety of speakers and music systems.

“You can understand why people still mostly rely on digital storage. I mean, look at all the space this stuff takes up,” Xabi said, a little more flippantly than Stevie thought the situation required. ‘Living in a museum’ was not a hyperbolic statement; the contents of this unassuming apartment in a converted office building in Manchester were absolutely priceless.

A waist-height display case ran between a dining area and the kitchen. When Stevie bent down to look through the glass top his jaw dropped again. He closed his mouth with a snap and took a deep breath. “Are these MP3 players?” There were about twenty of them, in various sizes and colours, anonymous little devices which gave no hint of the magic they held. The National Media Museum had seven and it was the largest public collection in the country. Stevie had thought it was the largest collection of any kind in the country, but apparently he was very wrong about that. “Do you even know what’s on these?”

“No. Finding people who can decode and transfer files from these things is difficult. And kind of illegal. I have a dock and speakers for the iPods but it doesn’t work.”

Stevie transferred his dumbfounded gaze from the cabinet to Xabi. “There could be music on these that nobody has heard for over a hundred years.”

“I know.”

“Xabi, this stuff belongs in a museum.”

“I thought you said this was a museum.” He said it lightly, but there was an edge to his voice. He leaned against the kitchen counter with feigned insouciance.

“Everyone should have access to this. It’s not fair to hoard it. We know so little about the last hundred and fifty years, so much has been lost and—” Stevie broke off at the look on Xabi’s face: sadness, regret, and a hint of anger. Not things Stevie had wanted this night to involve. He looked away. There was a second display cabinet, this one filled with more familiar devices; they were basically the same as modern data pads. There would be music on them too, and who knew what else; photos, books, movies, text messages and emails. Who knew what information about the past was languishing here in Xabi’s apartment.

Xabi’s soft voice broke into the tense silence. “If I gave this stuff to a museum, do you really think it would be accessible to everyone?”

“What? Of course—” Stevie began, then stopped.

“Some of it would be, yes. But most of it wouldn’t. Most of it would be locked away. At best. It might even be destroyed.” Stevie looked around the room again. Three of the vinyl record covers he could see depicted naked or nearly naked women and one of the CDs had a black and white label on it that read ‘parental advisory — explicit lyrics’. If they had felt the need to give warnings about the content even in the late 20th Century, it must be very explicit indeed. Almost all of this room was probably restricted, if not outright banned. His heart rate quickened as he realised what a risk Xabi had taken in bringing him here. If the wrong people found out about this, getting fired would be the least of Xabi’s concerns. He looked back at Xabi, who was watching him carefully.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you.”

“I know.”

“And I won’t say anything. To anyone.”

“I know that too. I trust you.” He pushed himself away from the counter and crossed the three steps to where Stevie was standing. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Stevie said, without hesitation. There was no way he couldn’t after Xabi had entrusted him with so much. But it wasn’t really that. Stevie had trusted Xabi from the moment he walked into the staff room.

Xabi smiled, brilliantly, heartbreakingly, and leaned in. “Is this okay?” he whispered when his lips were a hair’s breadth from Stevie’s. Stevie, who had been kissed all of three times in his life, and never by anyone who made him feel like this, nodded.

The pressure was light, a soft brush of lips and Xabi’s breath mingling with Stevie’s own. Xabi’s fingertips rested on Stevie’s jaw. Electricity tingled through Stevie’s entire body. After an eternity, Xabi pulled away. “I am going to do it someday, you know,” Xabi said, as a slightly dazed Stevie stared at him in confusion. “Give all this to a museum, I mean. Things are changing, attitudes are changing. Maybe at the next election, if Montain and his cronies go and Alloway’s lot get in, maybe they’ll reform things, drop the prohibitions. I’m not hoarding this stuff, Stevie, I’m trying to save it.”

“I know,” Stevie soothed, reaching up to run his fingers through Xabi’s hair. Xabi leaned into the touch. “I know.” He tugged playfully at Xabi’s hair and watched as Xabi’s eyes widened in surprised pleasure. “Are you going to kiss me properly now?”

“Oh, was that not good enough for you?” Xabi said, slipping his arms around Stevie’s waist.

“No. No, it was good. But I want more.” Xabi pulled him in close so they were pressed together from chest to hips, the heat of him flush against Stevie. His mouth this time was less gentle, insistent and hungry. Stevie had never felt anything like Xabi’s tongue against his own, or the hands that roamed over his back, or the way he felt simultaneously like he was flying and sinking into the floor.

And yet. This was almost familiar. He felt like he had done this before, though no-one, let alone Xabi, had ever kissed him like this. Xabi seemed to know exactly what he liked, even though Stevie himself wasn’t certain exactly what he liked, and Stevie felt sure he knew what Xabi liked too. As an experiment, he bit gently on Xabi’s lower lip. Xabi groaned and fisted Stevie’s shirt in his hands, trying to pull him closer, though getting any closer was physically impossible. They broke apart, panting, foreheads touching. Stevie traced the line of Xabi’s jaw, his stubble both prickly and soft under his fingers. If this was what it was like to kiss him, what would it be like to sleep with him?

~~

Stevie had thought it would be a point of contention between them, that the vastly more experienced Xabi would want to push for more. But Xabi had no desire to lose another job. If he did, that would be it. There would be no third chances for him. His career would be over. Besides, he knew how much Stevie loved his job. He would never do anything to jeopardise it.

So they did things properly. Slowly. They went out to dinner and went to the market and the cinema, and Xabi formally introduced Stevie to his parents, and Stevie formally introduced Xabi to his Mum, and if, in the privacy of their own homes, they went a little further than social convention dictated, that was nobody’s business but theirs. In public, they didn’t even hold hands.

They kept things quiet at work. There were no rules against two teachers being in a relationship, but Xabi’s reputation was against them and apparently Karen had already pushed her luck with the school Governors by hiring Xabi in the first place. She would not be able to protect them if the Board suspected there was anything untoward going on.

But schools were snake pits of gossip, and it wasn’t long before Claire was cornering him in the staff room. “So, what’s going on with you and Xabi?”

“Nothing,” Stevie said, knowing that the lie was futile.

“Really? Because you’ve been seen together more than once. Also, the way you look at each other is like, well, you don’t look at anyone else like that, and nor does he. You two aren’t subtle.”

“Alright, yes, we’re together. Happy now?” The response wasn’t what he expected.

“Not really, no. Look, I like Xabi. He’s intelligent and charming and handsome, and I can understand why you like him.”

“But…” Stevie said, as though he didn’t know where this was going.

“You know his reputation. All those men—”

“One man,” Stevie snapped. “One. One man, who he loved, and wanted to marry, and couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t he? Because he was already married, right? How can you trust someone who has affairs with married men?”

“Will you stop saying ‘men’ like he’s fucked half of Manchester?” Claire gasped. Stevie ignored her. “And you know what? Even if he had fucked half of Manchester, I wouldn’t care. What does it even matter?”

“Keep your voice down,” Claire hissed. “Are you trying to get fired? And this is exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve changed Stevie, he’s changed you. Before him, you would never have talked like this.”

“Before him? Before him I was — God, Claire, I don’t even know what I was, but believe me, I am so much better off now. Xabi’s like — you know that moment when you’re a kid, walking home from school on a cold winter’s day. It’s already dark and your fingers are numb even with your gloves on.” Claire nodded, her eyes wide. “And you turn onto your street and see your house, and the lights are on and it looks so cozy and warm inside, and even though you’re not there yet, you feel that coziness fill you up, and you know you’re home.”

Claire nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, I know that feeling. I’ve never had it from a person.”

“Well, I have. I do. Please don’t turn it into something sordid just because you’ve been listening to scurrilous gossip, most of which isn’t even true.”

“Okay. You’re right, I’m sorry. If that’s how you feel, then I’m happy for you.” She smiled and squeezed his arm, made to move past him. Then she stopped. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not.”

“Well, most people assume that you are. And when the Governors find out about your relationship, they’re going to assume that too. One way or another, you need to sort that out.”

~~

They were lying on Xabi’s couch, watching an old, probably very illegal, movie on the on the VHS player Xabi had hooked up to his TV via a complex system of wires and data pads. Every so often the picture stuttered and froze or was obscured entirely by black and white lines, but it mostly, miraculously, worked. The couple on screen danced and ran around the doomed ship _Titanic_ , falling in love, defying authority, and having sex in improbable locations. Stevie envied them deeply, despite knowing the boy was going to a cold, watery death. It was his own fault, really. There was nothing to stop them from going further than lying there together, Xabi’s finger’s tracing patterns on his wrists and Xabi’s lips occasionally brushing against the nape of his neck. How would anyone know? He wanted to, so badly he couldn’t concentrate — on the movie, on his work, on anything really except Xabi’s hands and how much he wanted them to slide a little lower. But it wasn’t so easy to shrug off his upbringing, to shrug off thirty years of being told it was wrong, no matter how much he argued with himself.

“I heard you talking to Claire,” Xabi said. “You two really need to learn to keep your voices down, by the way.”

“Did anyone else hear us?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You know, if people assume we’re sleeping together anyway, there’s no point in not doing it.”

“I’m not sleeping with you, Xabi.”

“Your loss.” A pause. “I didn’t know you felt like that. About coziness and home and all that.”

Stevie laughed and twisted around, pressed a kiss to Xabi’s cheek. “Yes you did.”

“You know I feel the same, don’t you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She’s right, you know. People are going to make assumptions that could make things very difficult for us. We need to do something about that.”

“And your solution is ‘we may as well do what everyone thinks we’re doing’? If we’re going to get in trouble it may as well be for something?”

“No, I was joking about that. Mostly. But the problem here is that we can’t have, or be suspected to have, sex outside of marriage. There’s an obvious solution to that.” Stevie stared at him. “I’m saying we should get married,” Xabi said, as though he had somehow been unclear.

“No, I got that.”

“Don’t you want to? I know we haven’t talked a great deal about this, but I thought we were on the same page.”

“You want to get married?”

“Yes.”

“To me.”

“Yes.”

“You wanted to get married once before. To someone who wasn’t me. You loved him, and now you don’t. How do you know the same thing won’t happen with us?”

“Because I know. Because he isn’t you. Because I have never felt like this in my life and it isn’t just an emotion, it’s part of me. Something that’s been missing and that you have given me and that can’t be removed without destroying me.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

~~

“I don’t know how I get talked into these things,” Stevie said, trying to balance three footballs and a pile of cones in his arms. He nudged a fourth ball along with his feet.

Xabi shook his head fondly and relieved Stevie of two of the footballs and half the cones. They made their careful way over to the stretch of grass that served as football pitch, rugby pitch, hockey pitch, javelin runway and, in the summer, the school’s fete ground. “It’s because you’re a good and dedicated person who cares about the kids at this school. Also, Karen is an incredibly persuasive woman.” He stumbled on a loose stone and almost lost everything but somehow managed to keep hold of it all. “The real question,” Xabi said, “is how come I always seem to end up helping you.”

“I think I know the answer to that,” Stevie said, stopping and turning to face him. He cast a glance up at the windows overlooking their path. There was no-one in sight so he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Xabi’s mouth.

“Hmm, yeah, that could be it,” Xabi said when they broke apart. His eyes darted over to the still-empty windows. “That was very risky.”

“Worth it,” Stevie said, and resumed his course to where the under-15s football team were waiting for their new coach.

Training was less disastrous than Stevie had anticipated. In fact, he was feeling rather pleased with himself. Considering he had no qualifications or experience as a coach, he had learned everything off the internet, several of the kids had serious issues with following instructions, and his so-called assistant spent half the time being actually helpful and half the time deliberately trying to distract him, Stevie didn’t think he’d done too bad a job. There had been that minor incident between City fan Julia Osha and die-hard Red Adam Price, but he had broken it up before it got out of hand and they were each going home with nothing worse than some bruising and a detention slip.

“Alright, you lot. Get showered, get dressed and get lost. I’ll see you all next week.” The kids trudged off the field with minimal pushing and shoving. Stevie began gathering up cones.

“Congratulations, no-one died,” Xabi said, dribbling a ball over with reasonable skill.

“That’s what I was going for.”

“Think they can win the league this year?”

“They’re not even in a league yet, Xabi.”

“Oh. Probably not then.” Xabi flicked the ball up to his knee, then let it drop back down and passed it to Stevie, who just about managed to stop it with his foot. “Play with me.”

“What, football?”

“No, Steven, water polo.”

“I haven’t played since I was a kid. I don’t even watch it any more.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s a lie. I know you watch football, I’ve seen you. You pretend you don’t, but you do. And second of all, so what? There’s no-one here. I don’t care if you’re good or not, I just want to play with you. It’ll be fun.” Xabi was smiling, unconcerned, but there was a tension in his posture and around his eyes. For whatever reason, this was important to him. Stevie pecked him on the cheek then set off up the field with the ball. Xabi gave a yell and chased after him.

They weren’t good by any stretch of the imagination, though Xabi was better than Stevie. Their passes missed their mark more often then they found them, and their attempts on goal were just as bad. They spent quite a lot of time on the ground as they tripped over discarded cones, the ball, each other’s feet, and, on one occasion, nothing at all. But it was fun, more fun than Stevie had had in a long time, and _right_ somehow, like he could spend his whole life tearing up a field with a ball at his feet and Xabi alongside him.

He was speeding towards the goal, and this time it was definitely going to go in and not ricochet off the post and hit him in the face, when there was a blur of movement to his left and Xabi was taking his feet out from underneath him and they were both tumbling to the ground.

“Foul!” Stevie cried while Xabi laughed beneath him. “Red card, ref. Send him off, the dirty cheat.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Xabi said, still laughing, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed. It occurred to Stevie that this is probably what he looked like when he made love, and then it occurred to him that he was lying on top him, their legs entangled and their faces close together. He drew in a breath and closed his eyes, but couldn’t bring himself to move. His eyes flew open again as cold fingertips touched his cheek. “Thank you,” Xabi said, still smiling.

“You were right. It was fun.”

“No, I mean — I don’t even know what I mean. I wanted to play with you, I needed to. It was really important and I don’t know why.” He was serious now, no hint of a smile lurking around his mouth or eyes. “Sometimes I feel like — do you ever feel like — Stevie, what is this?”

Stevie shook his head, a lump in his throat that he couldn’t explain any more than he could explain how he had felt the first time he had seen Xabi or why sometimes he would be overwhelmed by a sense of grief and loss that had no source. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Do we need to understand it? Can’t it just be?”

Xabi nodded and slipped a cold hand behind Stevie’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss, hard and slightly desperate. The lump in Stevie’s throat was in danger of turning into a sob and he pressed himself closer to Xabi as if that could keep it down. Xabi gasped into his mouth, murmured something like “Please, please,” and Stevie felt some barrier within him crumble and give way. He ground his hips against Xabi’s and slid his hand under Xabi’s shirt as he arched beneath him; his lips found Xabi’s neck, heedless of the mud smeared there, and moved down to his collar bone as his other hand ventured below Xabi’s waistband.

The distant bang of a door was still close enough to pull them back into reality and they looked around to see Karen coming down the steps from the school and crossing the yard. They froze and Stevie prayed she would turn towards the carpark without seeing them. But of course she raised her head at that moment and looked straight at them. She seemed puzzled for a second, as though she couldn’t work out what she was seeing, then her pace quickened and she stalked towards them. Stevie scrambled up off Xabi and held out a hand to pull him up, then they turned to face their furious boss.

“What is the matter with you two? Are you actively trying to destroy your careers, is that what’s happening here? Are you trying to destroy mine? Do you have any idea how much I’ve stuck my neck out for you two? Especially you.” She said this last to Xabi, who just looked helplessly at her.

“I know, Karen, I’m sorry. I really am. It won’t happen again.”

“No it won’t, because if I see you two even look at each other sideways I’m going to fire you on the spot. Do you think you’re special? Do you think you’re the first people ever to fall in love? It happens all the time, but everybody else manages to do it without dry humping each other on the school playing field.” She glared at them both. “When is this wedding taking place?”

“We haven’t set a date yet,” Xabi said. Karen narrowed her eyes and it took all Stevie’s resolve not to take a step back.

“Well set one. And make it soon. Not that being married would ever make this little display acceptable on school grounds. Or anywhere else for that matter. But at least it will get the Governors off my back about you two. Now get out of my sight and go home before I decide to fire you anyway.”

~~

They kept things simple. They didn’t want or need a fuss, and the less planning it required, the sooner they could get it done. Stevie had always thought of marriage as a big deal, and was now finding he felt differently. He didn’t need a piece of paper or a priest to tell him how he felt about Xabi or that his feelings were valid. But the world wanted them to be married, and he wanted it too, even if he no longer thought it should be necessary. He wanted to be Xabi’s husband and he wanted Xabi to be his.

Convention dictated they head straight off on their honeymoon from the wedding and their first night together would be spent in an anonymous hotel room somewhere. But that would have meant having the wedding during the summer holidays, and that was months away. So they were postponing the honeymoon, and their wedding night would be here, in Xabi’s apartment. Which from now on would be their apartment. It was fitting, Stevie decided as Xabi led him to the bedroom. This was where Xabi had opened up to him, let him in; this was where they had got to know each other; this was where they had really fallen in love. This was where their memories were, and where their future would be.

Stevie had never been in Xabi’s bedroom before. It was entirely unlike the rest of the apartment; there wasn’t a storage box or a shelving rack in sight. In fact, all Stevie could see was a large bed, and Xabi waiting beside it. He stepped forward, aware of Xabi’s eyes on him the entire time, and tugged at Xabi’s tie. It came apart in his hands and slithered round Xabi’s neck. “It seems a shame to take this suit off. You look good in it.”

“And you’ve been telling me all day how you can’t wait to get me out of it. Tease.” Xabi dipped his head to brush their lips together. “I can leave it on if you want.”

“I definitely don’t want,” said Stevie, who’s curiosity to find out what Xabi hid beneath all those shirts and jumpers had been piqued by far too many glimpses and hints over the last six months. Nevertheless, his hands froze on Xabi’s collar. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what came next, and certainly not that he didn’t want it. But still, he froze.

“Stevie,” Xabi said, taking Stevie’s hands in his and kissing his fingers. “It’s okay.”

Xabi slid Stevie’s jacket off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor, and then, slowly, as if he was afraid he was going to spook him, undid the buttons on his shirt, kissing down his chest and stomach with each newly-revealed patch of skin. By the time he reached the bottom of the shirt and untucked it, he was on his knees. Stevie watched, his chest heaving, as Xabi unbuckled his belt and unfastened his trousers. His hands felt awkward just hanging by his sides so, after hesitating a moment, he placed them on Xabi’s head, running his fingers through his hair. Xabi smiled and pressed a kiss to Stevie’s stomach, just above the waistband of his underwear. Something inside Stevie snapped and he was pulling Xabi up and kissing him and pushing him onto the bed before he’d even thought about it.

“I knew you’d be like this,” Xabi said breathlessly between kisses while Stevie scrabbled at his clothes.

“Like what?” Stevie kissed him again, his teeth snagging on his bottom lip and producing a moan that he decided to replicate by biting down more deliberately.

“Like you can’t get enough of me. Like you can’t wait to have me.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time.”

“Six months?”

“All my life.” Xabi went still beneath him, and for a moment Stevie feared he had said something wrong. But then Xabi wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled his head down, just as he had on the playing field. This time, Xabi’s hand was warm and there was no desperation in the kiss, only promise and passion and all the time in the world.

“I’ve missed you,” Xabi whispered when he broke away. “Is that crazy? That’s what I thought, that first day we met in the staff room. I looked at you and thought, ‘I’ve missed you’.”

“No crazier than me wanting to marry you on our first date. Which wasn’t even really a date.”

“That’s not crazy, that’s just me being irresistible,” Xabi said with a grin. Stevie swatted at him, laughing, and kissed him again. He shifted his weight and they pressed together. Xabi groaned. “Too many clothes.” He pushed at Stevie’s trousers to emphasise the point and soon, after some wriggling and laughter and a misplaced elbow to Xabi’s ribcage, there was nothing between them at all. Stevie bent his head to Xabi’s neck to nibble at the skin there and to give himself a second to get his bearings. The heat of Xabi against him was overwhelming; perfect and almost too much. Xabi tugged at his hair, sending little shivers through him, and it took a second for Stevie to realise that he was doing it to get his attention. He lifted his head. “Are you okay?”

Stevie nodded, smiling. “Better than okay.” Xabi smiled back and reached for something beside the bed. A second later he was pressing a bottle into Stevie’s hand. Stevie stared at it.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want. There’s loads of other stuff we can do, I don’t—” Stevie cut him off with a kiss, having discovered a while ago that this was the best way to shut Xabi up when he went into rambling mode.

“I do want to,” he said, when he pulled back. “God, Xabi, you have no idea how much I want to.”

Stevie was pretty familiar with the logistics, thanks to some of the more instructional, and really definitely illegal, films in Xabi’s collection. He was an expert in the theory of lovemaking. Putting theory into practice was a little tricky, but Xabi was after all an excellent teacher, and very patient. It was clumsier and more awkward than the people in the films had made it look, and definitely messier. But it was better. It was real. And once he’d found his rhythm, it was glorious.

Afterwards, when he’d collapsed trembling on top of a panting Xabi, he wondered if it was always like this, for everyone; this sense of rightness, completeness. It felt natural, almost familiar. Xabi’s words echoed in his head: ‘I’ve missed you’.

He rolled off Xabi with a groan and lay beside him, watching him; cheeks flushed and eyes closed. “Does it always feel like this?” Xabi turned his head and opened his eyes, all surprise and disbelief. He shook his head wordlessly and pulled Stevie into a kiss, and as Stevie sank into it he realised that no, of course it doesn’t. This was them, this belonged to them, and it may not be stronger or better or truer than what other people felt, but it was theirs.

~~

“Sir?” Adam’s hand was in the air again. “Sir, did you hear the Wembley Archives retrieved some more new stuff? Or some old stuff, I suppose. Some new old stuff.”

“I heard about it. I’m not sure what it’s got to do with the Wars of the Roses though.”

“Sir, did you know there used to be an England Captain called Steven Gerrard?”

“No, I didn’t,” Stevie said, amused at the very idea. Apparently his students thought so too. A titter ran round the class.

“It’s hilarious, Sir. No offense, you’re a decent coach, but as a player you’re not exactly Captain of England material are you?”

“No, but you are after-school detention material, Price,” Stevie said, nonetheless reaching across his desk for the data pad Adam was passing to him. Stevie was too caught by what he saw to even reprimand him for looking up old squad lists instead of the Battle of Bosworth Field. A photo of two players took up most of the screen; poor quality, the best the retrieval team had been able to do he supposed. One of the players wore white shirt and blue shorts, his back to the camera, ‘GERRARD’ emblazoned across his shoulders with a large figure ‘4’ underneath. The other player, facing the camera, was in red. Castile, he realised, squinting at it. Before the Secessions. Spain. For a second, the room span and his vision blurred. He thought he might be sick. His shaking hand caught the screen; the picture vanished and he found himself looking at several lists of names. His gaze fell on one headed ‘2014? Possibly World Cup’. His own name sat incongruously at the top, followed by (c) (Liv). His stomach roiled again. Then it passed as suddenly as it had come on. He took a deep breath and looked up. The class were watching him warily.

“Are you okay, Sir?”

“Fine. Must be coming down with something.” He stabbed distractedly at the data pad and several pictures flickered across the screen, stopping where the gallery had left off when Stevie closed it. The door swung open and Xabi walked in.

“Sorry to interrupt but you left this—” he broke off when he saw Stevie’s face. “Are you okay?”

“He’s ill, Sir,” Andi said from the back of the class. “You need to take him home and take care of him.” Xabi shot her a glare, and she quailed appropriately in her seat and began fiddling with her pencil. He crossed over to Stevie’s desk and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re ill?”

“I’m fine,” Stevie said, waving a hand. “It’s passed now.” Xabi’s hand tightened on his shoulder and he went very, very still. Looking up at him, Stevie saw that his eyes were not on him but on the data pad on his desk. After several tense seconds, Xabi relaxed and forced a laugh.

“How weird. I suppose it’s not an unusual name. He does kinda look like you from the back though.” He removed his hand from Stevie’s shoulder and handed him the sheaf of papers Stevie had left in the staff room that morning. “You forgot these.”

“Thanks.” He turned to the class. “Everybody thank Mr Alonso for bringing the test I prepared last night. You wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise.” There was a collective groan and several sarcastically muttered thank yous. Xabi grinned at them all.

“You’re welcome. I know how much everyone loves Mr Gerrard’s tests.” He turned back to Stevie and spoke more quietly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, don’t fuss. Now go and do some work, you slacker.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Andi scribble something on a scrap of paper and pass it to Margaret. He waited until Xabi had left. “Thank you, Miss Ateba, I’ll take that.” He knew at once from the girls’ horrified reactions that this was something they were going to be in trouble for, which meant he would have to spend time with detentions and possibly writing to their parents. He unfolded the note.

_Do you think they call each other Mr Alonso and Mr Gerrard in bed?_

He sighed. There went his plans to go to the antique market with Xabi after school. “Both of you see me after class.”

~~

“Stevie?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you ever think — do you ever feel like we’ve been here before?”

“We have been here before, Xabi, this is our bed.”

“You know what I mean, Steven.” As usual, Xabi’s use of his full name sent a jolt through him that wasn’t entirely explainable. And he knew exactly what he meant.

“I think,” Stevie said, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look down at his husband. “I think that it doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He leaned down to place a gentle kiss to Xabi’s lips. When he pulled back, the troubled look in his husband’s eyes had been replaced by something soft and warm.

~~

It wasn’t always easy. He had thought, foolishly, that it would be. He had forgotten, had let himself forget, the lesson he had learned as a child. He had forgotten what it was like when home no longer felt like home.

It felt like this, he thought, as he wrapped his arms around himself and tried to remember to breathe. He didn’t even know how the fight began. He never knew how the fights began. But they all ended like this; with Xabi storming out, out of the room or out of the apartment, and Stevie curled on his side in their bed.

In his more petty moments he blamed Karen for pushing them into this before they were ready, though he knew it wasn’t her fault. They had been as ready as they could be, had been almost since the moment they met. Even without her and the school board, they would have got married sooner rather than later.

In his worst moments he blamed Xabi: for having a past that made everyone watch their every move until the were forced to ‘do the right thing’; for having loved someone else before he loved Stevie, when Stevie had never loved anyone at all; for not being better at this when, after all, he had more practice.

Mostly he blamed himself. He couldn’t open up properly, couldn’t let Xabi in. He had not anticipated how hard it would be to share yourself with someone when for most of your life you had been utterly alone. Stevie threw up barriers and Xabi tried to get past them; Stevie resented him for trying, then resented him for failing.

He rolled onto his back and watched the lights from passing cars flicker across the ceiling. Eventually, he fell asleep.

When he woke it was still dark, but there were no more cars casting lights into the room. The world outside was still and silent. Stevie’s heart was pounding and he had trouble catching his breath. He couldn’t remember the details of the dream but he knew it was about Xabi, about losing Xabi. He could feel the fear and grief, the last touch of his hand and his breath on his lips. He could feel the noose around his neck.

The door opened and soft footsteps crossed the room. Then the covers were pulled back and Xabi slid into bed beside him, warm body and cold feet. His arms slipped tentatively around Stevie’s waist, and Stevie turned in his arms and held him tight, hid his face in his chest. "You're here."

Xabi's arms tightened. "Where else would I be?"

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. We’ll do better, Stevie, we will. We’ll figure this out, we’ll make it work.” His voice sounded choked and his arms tightened.

“I had this dream,” Stevie said.

“Yeah,” Xabi said. “Me too. But I’m not going anywhere and neither are you. We’ve got the rest of our lives. We’re going to be okay, I promise.”

~~

She was perfect. Ugly, but perfect. Stevie didn’t understand how her mother could give her up, though he supposed he didn’t know her circumstances so he couldn’t judge. She was his now, anyway; his and Xabi’s.

“What do you think about Jamie?” he said, turning to Xabi who was peering over his shoulder. Xabi tilted his head and reached out to chuck her under the chin.

“Yeah, I think she looks like a Jamie.” Stevie pecked Xabi on the lips then turned his attention back to the little pink face that was just starting to screw up.

Jamie, then. Their daughter.

~~

“This is harder than I thought it would be,” Xabi said, burying his face in Stevie’s shoulder as the removal men took away another box.

“This is the whole reason you were collecting this stuff in the first place,” Stevie reminded him. “And you’re not losing all of it.”

“I know, I know. You’re right. But I’ve had it a long time and it’s hard to part with it.”

“Think of it this way — this is a sign that our stuck-up, prudish society and the idiot bureaucrats who run it are finally loosening up and embracing rationality.”

“Who wants to embrace rationality anyway,” said Xabi, wrapping his arms around Stevie from behind and kissing his neck. “I’d rather embrace you.”

“Ew, gross,” Jamie said from her perch on the kitchen counter where she was trying to pretend she didn’t care about half her home being hauled away. Lizzie ran into the room, stopped dead when she saw what her dads were doing, and ran out again. “See? You’re scarring your children.”

The man from the museum whose name Stevie kept forgetting came over, tapping away as incessantly as ever at his data pad. Stevie was surprised his finger didn’t fall off. “I just want to thank you both again for this, it’s an extraordinary collection.”

“Well, it’s our pleasure,” Xabi said, making a creditable attempt at a genuine smile.

“It’s very exciting. The knowledge we can potentially gain from The Xabi Alonso Collection is remarkable, we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“You really don’t have to call it that,” Xabi said.

“Yes they do,” Stevie said, “and you know you want them to so stop pretending that you don’t.”

“Don’t forget you promised to call us as soon as you get something off the iPods and stuff so we can listen to it,” Jamie said.

“Don’t worry, young lady, I haven’t forgotten. It’s all there in the contract.” The man either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the face Jamie pulled at being called ‘young lady’.

Two more boxes and The Xabi Alonso Collection was gone. The apartment seemed huge and empty without it, despite the fact the museum had only taken about a third of the stuff Xabi had collected over the years.

Jamie hopped down from the counter and drifted out into the now-open living room. “Does this mean we’re going to have proper walls like normal people?”

~~

Stevie had to stifle a laugh, lest the Governors seated around him heard and he was subjected to another lecture about appropriate Head of Department behaviour. On stage, Xabi’s very best student was singing a heavily edited version of _Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered_. Any references to sinning, drinking heavily, and being horizontal had been vetoed straight away, as had the word ‘oversexed’. Miraculously, the line about the clinging trousers had been allowed, after Xabi somehow successfully argued that ‘worship the trousers that cling to him’ was clearly talking about the trousers themselves, and the aesthetic appreciation thereof, rather than their contents. Stevie wasn’t sure whether the Board had actually believed this or if they were so sick of arguing with him by that point that they just went along with it. Either way, the result was a fairly gobsmacked audience and, no doubt, a stack of complaints come Monday morning.

~~

“Cheer up, love. It’s a happy day,” Stevie said, watching Xabi prod disconsolately at his cereal.

“I’m happy. No really, I am. Look.” A frankly terrifying smile forced its way across Xabi’s face.

“You’re going to have to work on your fake smile pretty quickly, because if you smile like that at our daughter’s wedding I’m divorcing you. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Xabi’s smile softened into something more real and he reached across the table to run his knuckle over Stevie’s chin. “You wouldn’t.”

“Okay fine, I wouldn’t. But I will be pissed off at you for a really long time.”

“I’ll be good, I promise. I just…”

“What?”

“Don’t you think they’re rushing into things?”

Stevie laughed at precisely the wrong moment and inhaled about half his cup of coffee. “What?” he gasped, his eyes watering. “Are you serious? We’re hardly in a position to talk about rushing into things.”

“We’re exactly the people to talk about rushing into things,” Xabi said, half-risen from his seat. He sat back down again, apparently satisfied his husband wasn’t about to suffer death by coffee.

“It’s different for them. They’re not being pushed into it by outside forces. They’ve actually talked about, you know, the future and what they want and what they expect and stuff. It’ll be hard for them, but it’s always hard — that’s not unique to us, Xabi. They’ll be fine. They know each other well. They’ve even had sex.”

It was Xabi’s turn to choke. “How do you know that? Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Jesus Christ. Please don’t ever mention our daughters and sex in the same sentence ever again.”

“When did you become the prudish one? Honestly, Xabi.”

“I’m happy for them. I am. And I know they’re going to be fine. It’s just — she’s our little girl. I’m going to miss her.”

Stevie got up and walked round the table to wrap his arms around Xabi’s shoulders. He leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I know. I’m going to miss her too.”

“Jamie’s already gone and this place is going to be so quiet. It’s just you and me now.”

Stevie tucked two fingers under Xabi’s chin and turned his head so he could kiss him on the lips. “Is that so bad? Just you and me?”

Xabi smiled and kissed him again. “No. That’s not so bad.”

~~

Stevie could feel a ridiculous smile spread across his own face as he took in the giddy expression on Xabi’s. The bundle Xabi held gurgled and one wriggling arm waved out, and Xabi laughed in delight. “I think you’re more excited about being a grandfather than you were about being a father.”

Xabi looked up at him, eyes alight and beautiful. “Of course I am. Becoming a father is scary. Becoming a grandfather is fun. I always wanted grandchildren,” he added, his voice drifting off a little as he looked back down at his grandson.

“I know,” Stevie said. “You don’t know how lucky you are, young man,” he added to little George, who gazed uncomprehendingly back up at him. “Your Grandpa Xabi’s going to teach you how to play football and about music, and I’m going to teach you about whatever the hell it is I managed to teach your mum and Auntie Jamie that made them turn out so great. Who knows. We’re going to have fun though, eh?” George gurgled again and waved his fist. “Good man.”

~~

“I’m too old for this,” Stevie said, as a wriggling child slithered off his knee and ran off to play with her cousins. “Which one is that again?”

Xabi frowned after her. “Rebecca. George’s girl.”

“Right. Of course. Funny how you can love them when you can’t remember their names or even tell the difference between them.”

“That’s because you love with your heart, not with your eyes and your brain.”

“Odd. I thought the heart was for pumping blood around the body. I must have been wrong all these years,” Stevie said, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

“Have a nap, Steven. Nobody will mind.”

“I’ll mind. I haven’t had birthday cake yet.”

Xabi rolled his eyes. “What makes you think you’re getting one.”

“If you haven’t got me one I’m definitely divorcing you.”

“You know I’ve been keeping count of how many times you’ve threatened to divorce me in the time we’ve been married?”

“I did not know that. But I’m not surprised.”

“It’s 673, by the way.”

“That’s quite a lot.”

“And you’ve never once actually gone through with it, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t quiver with fear at the prospect this time, either.”

“Am I getting cake, Xabi?”

“Yes, yes, you overgrown child, you’re getting cake. Of course you’re getting cake.”

“Thank you,” Stevie said. He pressed a kiss to Xabi’s cheek. The familiar white bristles scratched his lips and he nuzzled against them for a second, feeling a smile stretch Xabi’s face.

“As if I wouldn’t get you cake,” Xabi said, taking his hand.

The cake was brought out, more candles really than cake. It took several attempts to blow them all out, to gasps of horror from the children.

“Your wish won’t come true now, Grandpa Stevie,” said a boy of about ten, almost certainly one of Lizzie’s daughter’s brood. Possibly.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got everything I could possibly want,” Stevie said, turning to Xabi with a smile and pecking him on the lips. There were groans around the room and someone made a raspberry sound. “I meant all of you lot. Obviously.”

The cake was chocolatey and sticky, and really far too rich and sickly. Stevie ate all his piece anyway. At his age every piece of birthday cake could be his last and he would enjoy every last crumb of it, sickliness be damned.

Xabi moved to the piano. He couldn’t sing more than a handful of notes these days without coughing, but their granddaughter Kate had a lovely voice, so she sang while Xabi played. They ran through _Love Me Tender_ , _The Nearness of You_ , and _Hey Jude_ ; then several great-grandchildren joined in for a dubious rendition of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ that had Stevie in tears. There followed some stuff that Stevie had never even heard before but Xabi had apparently discovered ‘in a bin’ at the antique market. They were being treated to the premier before he handed it over to the university. They finished up with _We’ll Meet Again_. Many years ago Stevie had banned Xabi from playing it because it made him too sad. As he got older he found he liked it more and had lifted the ban, though it still made him sad.

Kate helped Xabi back to his seat. “Happy birthday,” he said, as he used Stevie’s shoulder to help him sit back down. He ran his fingers through Stevie’s hair.

“I think I’ll have that nap now,” Stevie said, laying his head on Xabi’s shoulder.

The next thing he knew he was being shaken awake. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Everyone’s leaving.” Stevie forced himself upright to give kisses and hugs and thanks to his seemingly never ending family, then sank wearily back against the cushions as the door closed for the last time. Xabi made his way back to the piano and sat quietly for a long time before once more picking out the notes of _We’ll Meet Again_. He’d been playing it a lot recently. The last note died away and Xabi turned to him and smiled. “Come on. Bed.” Stevie cast a glance towards the kitchen, but it looked spotless. “The kids sorted it all out while you were sleeping.”

They made their slow, shuffling way through the apartment they had shared since the day they got married, leaning on each other for support. Stevie blessed the day they had decided against buying a house; at least they didn’t have to deal with stairs. “Did you notice how old Jamie looked?”

“You know that didn’t just happen today, don’t you. She’s been old for a while now,” Xabi said.

“And we’ve been old for even longer. Even our grandchildren are middle-aged.”

“I can still give you a run for your money though,” Xabi said, reaching down and pinching his bum. Stevie groaned.

“Maybe not tonight though.”

“Maybe not tonight,” Xabi agreed.

Getting into bed hurt more than getting into bed would hurt in a just world. Stevie had long since come to the conclusion they did not live in a just world. But the world had Xabi in it and so did his bed, so it wasn’t all bad. The last thing he was aware of was Xabi’s arms around his waist and Xabi’s breath against his neck, before he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Xabi singing _Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered_ while Stevie watches from the doorway is pretty cliched, but I couldn't have music teacher!Xabi and not do it (the 'making out after football training' is probably also pretty cliched at this point, but again it had to be done). Xabi omits the last bit of the song about falling out of love, because Xabi's smooth like that. Obviously the [Ella Fitzgerald](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fzZ4l2H5-w) version is the best, but for the proper music teacher!Xabi experience you should probably check out [Rufus Wainwright](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lA0pP1nBmFk).
> 
> Of course I had to have some Coldplay in there. I picked [Clocks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d020hcWA_Wg) because it seemed like something Stevie might hear once as a child and get it stuck in his head.
> 
> The piece Xabi is playing when Stevie finds him in the music block is [Clair de Lune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ea2WoUtbzuw). (Also a cliche???? Maybe. I don't care, I love it).
> 
> I don't think I posted a link to We'll Meet Again on chapter 3, so for completeness' sake, [here it is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HsM_VmN6ytk).
> 
> The photo of Stevie playing against Spain does not, as far as I can tell, exist. And believe me I looked. I couldn't find a single one that filled my requirements. There are hardly any pictures at all, in fact, as Stevie has only played against Spain [once](http://www.myfootballfacts.com/England_v_Spain.html), in 2007, for a grand total of 46 minutes.
> 
> I was trying to do something all through this fic that never quite came off the way I wanted. I didn't want them to be friends/close to anyone from one life that they were friends/close to in another life, because I wanted it to be that they only had this strong connection with each other. However, I did want them to occassionally cross paths with people who were/would be important to them in other lives. The only person I really managed to work it with was Mikel Arteta, who in chapter 4 is revealed to be the acquaintance in chapter 2 who introduced Xabi to opium (I think this also had the unfortunate side effect of making Arteta more prominent than I wanted him to be. Whoops.) Anyway, most of them aren't mentioned by name in the fic, and some of them aren't mentioned at all and the connections are purely in my head, but if anyone's curious about this or any other world building stuff that isn't clear, let me know.


End file.
